


Long Nights

by Borath



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble Sequence, Graphic, M/M, Mech Preg, Medical Procedures, Mpreg, No longer drabble, Sticky Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:53:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 42
Words: 92,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Borath/pseuds/Borath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cybertronian childbearing is a long process.  For the Decepticon who would be a warlord, it began before the Exodus.  Formerly a drabble series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Late

**Author's Note:**

> I barely have time to write fanfiction any more, but this story just wont let go so I'm going to post up what I do manage to write. I've never done this before, but I hope you like this assortment of drabbles. I'm using usual human terminology for units of time with Cybertronian durations (everything is much longer).

Megatron lay reclined on the angled berth, listening to Knock Out running his scans, making notes, adjusting equipment and humming to himself. The doctor had barely waited a day after his return from the war-ripped colony before pressing him to undergo his regular maintenance. 

“Whilst you’re here, shall I install your bolt and save you the nuisance of coming back?” Knock Out asked, rather grandly for what the query entailed. Bolts were installed into the gestation tanks of those Decepticons who still had them to prevent a new-kindle from attaching. 

When he was beginning to build a reputation as a gladiator In the Pits, Megatronus had been harassed by numerous sponsors to have his tank removed – a procedure that was cheaper and more permanent than a bolt. He had turned the suggestions down flat, determined to keep one of the few things that remained of his free will, even if he was never able to use it. A bolt would have been a fanciful luxury, then – postponing something that he would likely never be able to have. Sparklings were long in the coming and expensive when they arrived, requiring rations they were not entitled to as non-working dependents and sophisticated maintenance. There were difficult to afford on Cybertron, and they could not be afforded in an army. They’d raided a vast supply of bolts in addition to medical resources before the Nemesis had left Cybertron’s orbit.

“Fine,” he uttered, already bringing his pedes up whilst Knock Out adjusted the berth. Settling his heels onto the extended platforms, he waited for the doctor to return with the innocuous looking cylinder that served both as storage and delivery method. 

“Quick and painless, Commander, I promise.” Slender claws tuned for high-precision work sprayed a slippery mixture of lubricant and repair nanites over one end. Knock Out came to stand between the larger mech’s knees and place a scanner atop the solid abdominal plates. “If you would, sir.”

Megatron snapped back his panel and continued to stare at the ceiling, studiously ignoring the mech’s hand against his valve. 

“This may feel a little strange,” Knock Out advised, pressing the rounded edge of the cylinder against the bared valve and following through in one smooth movement. His patient remained utterly still until it made contact with the ceiling nodes, then the heavy frame twitched with a soft grunt. He readjusted his grip, optics narrowed on the scanner. Breaching the base of a chamber when it was stone cold required a certain degree of blunt force, but he rather that than work to stimulate dilation as he had with Starscream and Breakdown.

“Heavy pressure, now,” he warned, then slowly began pressing the cylinder to force it between the interlocking plates. It was like trying to push into a bulkhead: his shoulder actually ached from the force he was exerting, and he stopped with a frown when he saw that Megatron’s hands had tightened into fists.

“I’m sorry, Commander – that should have been straightforward.” Withdrawing the cylinder, Knock Out set it aside on the instrument tray and grimaced to see that he’d drawn energon. He checked the scanner for damage, and picked it up to adjust the sensors when he found it to be negligible. “Your chamber’s locked down for some reason.” He gave an irritated huff, his lip curlinginto a sneer. “This could be symptomatic of a localised infection from the borderline _unsanitary_ conditions of the trenches, but I’ll need to run more…”

Knock Out trailed off with raised eyebrows, staring at the read outs. 

Megatron finally fixed his optics on the other mech, his field one of mounting impatience. Looking up, Knock Out cleared his throat and motioned to his panel. “You can close up, Commander. It, ah… appears that I’ve been too late in installing a bolt.”

His hands curled back into fists, the massive curves of his shoulder guards rocking as he sat up. “What does that mean?”

Knock Out glanced at the door as if hoping someone would come in, then back at the scanner as if hoping the readings had changed. Finally, he took a breath, released it quickly, and then straightened into a shield of professionalism. “I can’t open your chamber without more aggressive measures because you’re carrying, sir.”

“A sparkling.” It was a stupid thing to say. Megatron’s expression was flat and remained unchanged when Knock Out nodded. The larger mech said nothing for a full minute. Bringing his pedes down, he shifted forward until he was sitting on the edge of the berth. “How old?”

_Of course he knew how slagging old it was. It wasn’t as if it had appeared out of nowhere._

A little surprised (and enormously relieved) that Megatron hadn’t so much as raised his voice, Knock Out set the scanner aside from where he’d been holding it up like a shield. “18 weeks.” 

_And four days. Right before he and Orion had stood before the Council. A fifth of its carriage. Slag and scrap._

Standing within Megatron’s energy field was like standing in the shadow of a mountain. Whilst this was highly advantageous in a military and combat setting, it was also damnably telling when his mood edged away from confidence, authority or rage. Knock Out stepped closer to the berth automatically when the powerful field shrunk; not a complete withdrawal, but certainly an unconscious sign of something shutting down on a deep and private level.

He watched Megatron touch a hand to his face, one claw resting at the edge of his helmet and pressing firmly. His optics were distant, and did not refocus when Knock Out broached, “You, didn’t suspect that something was… amiss? There would have been symptoms by now.”

“I was fighting on the front line, Doctor,” Megatron snapped, though he remained sat forward and hunched on the berth. It did nothing to make him less intimidating. “I was preoccupied.”

Knock Out backed up those few steps he’d taken in the offer of proximal comfort. “Of course, Commander, I apologise. I, ah… I’ll give you a moment.” Then more softly: “These decisions are never easy, in any circumstances.”

Megatron straightened as soon as the meaning of that vaguery clicked. His optics snapped to Knock Out’s, ventral plates flaring with a hiss. “You mean termination?”

The lithe mech looked at the door again, then found his resolve once again. As sensitive and unexpected as this situation was, he was still the Chief Medical Officer of this ship, and when it came to physical wellbeing – in any capacity – he outranked even Megatron himself. Knock Out let his arms drop to his sides, though he did not otherwise make his posture deferential. “Well… yes. I mean, I only assumed that with the state of affairs being what they are-” 

Megatron’s standing from the berth cut the doctor off a second before his growl did. “Do not make assumptions a habit, Knock Out.”

“Oh course. My apologies,” Knock Out replied, and now his doorwings were dipped in submission. It was clear that Megatron had no desire to continue this conversation right now. Rather than begin to speculate on the implications of _that_ , Knock Out tucked his hands behind his back and gave them both an easy way out. “You, ah, needn’t make a decision right away. However the sooner you do, the better. In all regards.”

A non-committal, preoccupied grunt was the only response Knock Out received from Megatron as he took his leave of the room. As soon as he heard the blast doors of the Medbay’s entrance hiss shut, he leaned into the wall and buried his face in his hands.

It was going to be a bad day.


	2. So

“What now?”

Soundwave raised his screen to Megatron, who held himself tense and ready for the inevitable answer. 

_Get rid of it. There is no alternative. Kill it. Now._

There was a feeling like static across Megatron’s mind, and a querying wave seeking permission. Weary, miserable and trusting, Megatron gave silent assent. For his part, Starscream seemed content to cross his arms and wait.

The mental touch was not probing, as Megatron had anticipated, but instead calming. As the emotional maelstrom that had been the last few hours was gently but firmly cleared from his mind, Soundwave projected his simple question: _Do you wish to have it?_

Dente gritted, Megatron clenched his fists at the question. _How dare you,_ he wanted to ask but didn’t. _How dare you._ But the soothing buzz from the telepath resumed, urging an honest answer in the creating of clear space to contemplate it.

It was _impossible._ The Autobots on Cybertron were resorting to Guerrilla tactics on the Decepticon-held cities. Prime and the Ark had fled. They were gaining more momentum, more victories closer to peace every day. They had sacrificed too much, fought too hard to afford potentially undermining the image of unrivaled power and certainty they had earned with such _folly_ as a carrying Commander.

 _No,_ Soundwave interrupted. _You have sacrificed much for us, fought hard for us, and nothing could sway your followers from perceiving you as anything other than indomitable._ The angular mech straightened, authoritative. _We can afford your single personal want now. If you wish it._

In the quiet space left when plotting and doubt were gone, Megatron found his certainty surprising. _He did._

It was Starscream who ultimately broke the heavy silence that had followed the damnable question, drawn on so long that Megatron had half-forgotten asking it. 

“Nothing. We do nothing, because this changes nothing.” The Seeker unfolded his arms, striding towards the two senior mechs with all the grace and presence of a predator. “If word of this… development leaves this ship, those who dare expose classified information to our enemies will be returned to Cybertron and put at Shockwave’s disposal.”

There was a pause: Soundwave watching for confirmation; Starscream to see if he’d overstepped his bounds; Megatron, processing what felt like hope as he studied his officers.

The Seeker’s optics were steady, his wings held stiff and high. He pressed a fist across his chest, inclining his jaw. “Hail, Lord Megatron.”

Soundwave copied the salute, and after an awkward pause, Megatron gave a short nod to acknowledge them both.

So that was that.


	3. Watch

A week later and the ease with which his officers accepted the situation was still bothering Megatron. Knock Out was, above his preening, a professional and had simply given him the relevant literature from his archives and answered his questions. Soundwave had, of his own volition, edited in appointment spaces, longer off-duty cycles and progressively more frequent refuelling times in his schedule and forwarded it on to Knock Out as well as the Commander.

Starscream _watched._

That in itself wasn’t unusual, though the lack of a regular sneer or smirk was a deviation from the norm. It was Starscream’s acceptance, far more than Knock Out’s or Soundwave’s, that had disturbed Megatron. There had been no sarcastic remarks, no superficially genial but barbed comments – usually his wings were a tell, but they hadn’t betrayed any emotion but calm, thoughtful acceptance.

Even now his Second watched him with hooded eyes, stood waiting at his console for their shuttle to report in. Megatron had been watching him in his peripheral vision, keeping his optics on the data pad in his hand. Starscream moved slightly, a small readjustment of his weight between his pedes, and Megatron met that intelligent stare.

And quite suddenly understood what his Air Commander had been thinking on. Why he had been the first one to openly defend his carriage.

It was obvious, now, and Megatron found himself remembering the singular, heated exchange that had taken place in a cold trench some six months ago. Bringing down the Towers in its most literal sense had been a much longer, more arduous task than any of them had envisioned. Aside from the purely symbolic meaning inherent in their destruction, the Seeker hadn’t understood why Megatron was so pit-bent on laying the glossy architecture in the center of Iacon to waste.

Half his plating had been scorched raw, warped and dented by chemical fires and falling debris, and Starscream was in no better shape. The day before had been the first time he’d faced Orion-now-Optimus since the Senate. The betrayal that had curdled into a cinder had blazed anew in the crucible of his spark, leaving him high with hate and a lust for revenge. 

Hunkered down under a dead shuttleformer whilst they waited for an airstrike to carpet-bomb the resistance, Starscream had sunk his claws into his chassis and _demanded_ to know why they were wasting so many resources and lives on wanton destruction when there was hundreds of legitimate targets that needed to be dealt with.

And Megatron had told him, hissing and snarling and staring through error messages into the Seeker’s stunned-silent face. Told him about a defective sparkling sold cheap on the black market, bought and hidden and becoming _everything_ that mattered in a dark world. That they hadn’t been the right tier to get help when a rig shed its load. How it’d been taken away and taken apart before its sparkcasing had grayed, because Courier Unit D16-N05 was just _parts_ to them.

Remembering that conversation now, amidst the calm quiet of the Nemesis bridge, Megatron felt again that swelling sickness, horrified anew that the words had not stopped coming. But underneath, as before, was some cold kind of relief; like a pressure valve that had spent centuries trembling in the red had finally snapped open and averted an explosion.

He wondered if Soundwave knew. He wondered if it mattered anymore.

Forcing his optics back to the viewscreens, Megatron resettled in the chair with an exvent and ignored the Seeker. 

What was done was done. Now they would drive onwards, destroying and reforging, stronger than before. 

It would never be the same.


	4. Itch

Megatron was not accustomed to feeling like this, and the strangeness perturbed him as much as the sensation itself did.  Lying in only the light of his optics in his private chambers, his berth cool and solid beneath his back, he’d been trying to sink into recharge for the better part of an hour now.  But this, ache, not quite in his chassis and not quite in his spark, throbbing a thick swell of energy down through his midsection, persisted and kept him online.  He traced the claws of one hand over the central point of his chest plates, imagining the distortion that his sensors told him was not there, scratching over the thing inside that most definitely was.

Its fault. It had to be.

He dropped his hand back to his side with a growled huff, considering the black recesses of the ceiling again.  His temperature gauge rose another degree, and he drew his hands into frustrated fists.  It was becoming painfully obvious that he would not be recharging tonight until he got rid of this stray charge.  Did something to ease the ache.

Or _someone_ , a quiet part of his processor supplied, and he growled anew at the intruding thought.  He was Lord Megatron, Commander of the Decepticons and the rightful future ruler of Cybertron – he was no slave to his frame.   

But it was becoming more tempting, seeming more necessary with each passing second alone in the dark. Alone with this sparkling that shouldn’t be here, a guarded secret from the crew that continuously threw his systems into disarray and left him feeling lost in his own mass.  His body was steadily becoming foreign to him as unknown protocols thrummed to life, directing a frame forged wholly to _survive_ to _create._

As if triggered, a wave of negative charge shivered out from his core and left a cramping wave in its wake.  Megatron shifted in an attempt to ease it, hips arching and pedes scraping the dull surface of the berth when the discomfort didn’t abate but mounted.  Excessive charge was just that, and not in itself dangerous if the cause was known.  A strange tightness and an even stranger pressure, but nothing to contact Knock Out about.  He was gaining a rapid education in recognizing the difference between a need for medical intervention and the plain result of one of the myriad changes taking place in his body.  New programs, new systems, new aches, new _needs_ -

_Company_ , Megatron realized with a pang.  He _needed_ company. 

He could have summoned Soundwave to his quarters.  His loyal spy master wouldn’t hesitate, particularly as he was of a very select few privy to his Commander’s present condition.  Soundwave had even managed to surpass Megatron’s expectations of how he would respond, not offering even a shadow of the concern or assistance that he abhorred the very thought of.  If Soundwave came now, he would sit quietly and just be a presence if that was what Megatron requested of him.  Or he would lay his angular body alongside on the berth, chastely sharing the warmth and vibrations of his body.  Or he would soothe away this ache with -

Impulsively, before he had the chance to fall even further down this utterly pointless tangent, he pinged Starscream instead.

The querying glyph came back almost instantly, as if the other mech had also been lying awake.

Megatron gritted his dente, asked himself if he was really _doing_ this, and pressed his fingertips to his central seam. He didn’t need to send anything more than a beckoning glyph to get his intent across, immediately closing the channel again with shuttered optics.  It wouldn’t be the first time he’d found himself in the mood to put the Seeker’s manic energy and sly mouth to good use, so Starscream would have no reason to read much into it.  He wasn’t so myopic as to think that Starscream didn’t, in fact, enjoy their occasional trysts, if only for the opportunity to curry favour if not for the overloads. 

Starscream arrived minutes later, keying open the door already unlocked.  He traced his hand up one side of the frame, stretching the silhouette of his body against the purple lighting of the corridor.  Megatron found the act both ridiculous and highly effective.

“Why, Lord Megatron, a summons at this late hour?” the Seeker purred, as if the last two weeks of staring and relative peace hadn’t happened.  “What could you _possibly_ want of me?”

The slick words, delivered as sinuously as the posing body by the door, send warmth pooling in his groin.  Immediately the ache in his chassis eased, though it was far from gone.  Megatron slid down from the berth. 

“Stop talking, Starscream,” he growled, one hand resting on the flat surface as he watched the slender mech slink across the dark space.

Starscream didn’t break optic contact as he sat up on the edge of the berth, in easy reach of the stiff hand lying there.  He drew one slender heel up to expose the curve of his closed interface panel, drawing out the silence as he parted his thighs.  Megatron acted so much as if he were on an island of his own power that, when he asked for him as a mech wanting another mech, he couldn’t resist.  Every hoarse cry dragged from the Warlord’s vocals, every base urge and need sprayed out across this berth, felt like seeing him come down a rung or ten. 

The development taking place in the Commander’s frame brought him even further. It was most appealing.

And it wasn’t as if this were merely a calculated endurance for him.  Cooling vents already cycling up in anticipation, Starscream tipped his head fractionally to highlight the curve of his mouth and throat.  “Are you planning on making me, my Lord?”

_Yes_ , Megatron thought, he was. He was going to do to Starscream everything he usually did on nights like this until he was too spent to continue.  Roughly seizing the back of the Seeker’s helm, Megatron levered his body down and guided the gasping mouth to his already released spike.  His hand gentled into a possessive hold as that wicked glossa slid against his ridges with exactly the right heat and pressure. 

With practiced ease, Starscream traced his hands along the commander’s hips and thighs as he shifted into a more comfortable position on the berth, mouth and glossa working without pause.  He loved this; the power of it.  Bringing the bigger mech apart in increments with flicks and swirls, dente and throat.  Megatron rocked into him, so slight a movement he likely was unaware he was doing it, hand now only resting against his helm.

Megatron watched the display through hooded optics, concentrating on the mounting charge and the talented mouth stoking it.  The hand not guiding Starscream’s head found his open interface panel, smearing the lubricant already there in obscene patterns and drawing out more.  The sensations around his spike turned more vigorous, more intent, and he sunk two fingers to the knuckle into the Seeker’s valve as overload took him.

Coming down again was quick, and Megatron growled when he felt that the charge had barely abated.  Used to going several rounds, Starscream was already working his spike at a steady pace whilst rocking into his Lord’s hand.  At the growl, his optics onlined and he drew his mouth back, waiting.

Starscream found himself pushed back on the berth, thick fingers still rubbing at his valve as he was arranged to Megatron’s liking on elbows and knees.  He raised his chin with a contented hum, back arching as Megatron rose onto the berth and between his thighs.  The mech’s vents were wide open, now, his armour hot and hydraulics taut.  He flexed his wings and preened, watching from over his shoulder.

Megatron sank fully into the constricting valve with such force that the Seeker’s knees screeched forward on the berth, a matching sound groaning from his mouth.  His hands wrapped almost entirely around the narrow waist, thumbs lodged into the armour over gently flared hips.  Megatron set a vicious pace that soon had Starscream collapsing forwards, fingers scrabbling for purchase.  Minutes later he overloaded again, feeling the valve constrict in ripples as he went. 

He stilled, pressed as deep into Starscream as he could go, for less than a minute.  The climax, the pull around his spike, the sensor nodes running the length of it sliding over the other mech’s was pleasurable but still not enough.  Dragging the semi-limp body upright, Megatron held Starscream flush against him on his knees with an arm around his throat, his other hand maintaining an iron hold on his hip to slam him back for even more powerful thrusts.  It was like his systems hadn’t tripped at all, the yawning ache still present and powerful despite two overloads.

Starscream overloaded again with a shriek, but even that brought Megatron no closer to the edge.  He felt sick, chasing something he needed just out of reach, _hollow_.

It was a split-second decision, barely a conscious one, to pull out, flip Starscream onto his back and straddle him.  The Seeker was dazed but his spike pressurised automatically when Megatron ground down. 

He took both of Starscream’s wrists in one hand and slammed them above his head, unwilling to be touched back as he lowered his valve onto the mech’s spike.  They never did this.  Too many negative associations in Megatron’s mind; too many insinuations of domination and power in Starscream’s.  The Seeker was being held down and used like a ‘face toy as Megatron found a rhythm, jaw tight from the stretch.

Starscream was groaning in short, sharp cries by the time Megatron overloaded, his body curling forward as he jerked through the trip.  His optics were wide and bleached white at the edges, mouth open and vents deafeningly loud.

It still wasn’t enough. 

Valve still tight and hyper-sensitive around Starscream’s spike, Megatron collapsed forward onto his elbows.  The Seeker wound his hands free, daring the play them down his chassis and rest them on the thighs still straddling his waist.  Megatron shuddered, his plates rattling with the force of it, and bent his helm to the berth.

“What is this?” he uttered, his voice coming as a strained rasp.

To Megatron’s half-sparked annoyance, Starscream’s vocaliser was almost normal.  “I hear it’s called the Rut,” he murmured, angling his mouth towards the mech’s audial.  “Rather common around this stage of carrying.”

The Seeker twitched his hips, smirking at Megatron’s groan and the shift onto his knees to allow Starscream to thrust upwards.  It was deliriously satisfying. 

His claws found purchase on the larger mech’s hips and he set his heels into the berth, driving up faster and harder.  Megatron quaked above him, something frightened in his terse expression, and Starscream took pity.  Easing back the speed but not the force of his trusts, he brought one hand to the mech’s helm, holding just as his had been held before.

“We aren’t intended to reproduce in solitude.  Sire or cohort ought to be present for things like this.”  His voice slid from reassuring and comforting into a more familiar, crueler lilt.  “But as you’re lacking any of _those_ , I suppose you’ll just have to go with what works.”

“Nonsense,” Megatron hissed as he shook his helm.  His optics were shuttered. It was bad enough to _feel_   Starscream slamming into his valve; he didn’t want to see the smug expression on his faceplates as well. 

“It doesn’t last long.”  His grip tightened around the miner’s helmet, a stuttered moan crawling between his dente as his charge swelled.  “You might as well enjoy it, my Lord.”

“I,” Megatron rasped, arms trembling as heat prickled up his thighs and through his chassis, “will not be dictated to by my frame.”

On the cusp of overload and bold for it, Starscream pressed one hand below the commander’s spark.  His features creased into a strained grin, optics bright.  “I think you gave in to being dictated when you decided to keep _this_.”

Megatron’s howl started as rage and ended streaked through with white-lightning ecstasy. His hips rocked in spasms, fists tight on either side of Starscream’s helm.  The Seeker was unconscious, the high point of one cheek dented flat.

Though the charge was lingered, he was sated enough to cycle down now.  Once he was satisfied that his twitching systems were back under control, Megatron lifted himself off the smaller mech and down from the berth.  Intending to rinse in the adjacent washrack before recharge, he cast a critical optic over his Second.

Starscream would online where he’d been left on the floor.  On the berth, Megatron lay in solid defrag with his hands resting across his chassis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not very good at the 'short' bit of 'drabble'...


	5. Building Pressure

The Rut had lasted far longer than Starscream had insinuated and Megatron had hoped it would. It had taken two weeks until he’d been able to get through an entire shift without being forced to surrender to the charge. To his immense surprise, Soundwave had requested a private meeting in his office during the first fitful week. There, he’d proceeded to demonstrate his full support to the Commander on the desk, and later on the floor, in the chair and against the wall. 

It had been a welcome reprieve from Starscream’s rather caustic foreplay, and he’d gained a whole new appreciation of those datacables…

The persistent charge had been dying down to a smouldering heat for the last two days, but Megatron’s ever-attentive Third was still keen to help ease his Lord’s distracting symptoms. He’d left the carrying mech an hour after their shift ended before tracking him to his quarters to see if the charge had eased off on its own. It hadn’t, and though his pleasure at finding such was outwardly imperceptible, Soundwave ensured that Megatron knew he was in hands (and datacables) determined to overload him as many times as necessary.

Megaton’s berth was generously sized, but their writhing mass still managed to fill it. As the Rut had gone on, they’d grown bolder with one another. Unlike Starscream, who would insinuate power and dominance from any alteration in the Master/servant dynamic, Soundwave bore no illusions as to this being anything more than unattached and carnal; a need to be tended. 

They coupled without any hesitations now, though Megatron was still left to initiate the proceedings. It was not of his directive that he had a datacable as well as Soundwave’s spike lodged tight in his slick, oversensitive valve, the other groping along the mech’s back.

Megatron’s flight engines were howling with heat, and he held himself over Soundwave’s body on elbows and knees deaf and blind to anything but the exquisite flux and crack of their shared charge. Soundwave rocked into him slow and firm, unwilling to push a harder rhythm when his Lord’s valve was so full. 

His screen flickered between black static and grey lines of subsonic groaning frequency. The sound of his master’s pleasure was as satisfying as they clench around his spike, and he could hear in the static-streaked growl that his partner was close to his fourth overload. On the apex of his thrust, when his spike just touched the ceiling nodes, he twisted his datacable and corkscrewed out of the valve on the withdrawal. He continued to motion on the next hard slam in, and felt Megatron lock around him, spasming with a roar.

Being inside an overloading carrier was overwhelming, the gestating systems making their charge richer, headier, and Soundwave had to execute several emergency protocols to keep himself from falling offlined as he was pulled ruthlessly over the edge. He could not, would not be unconscious with Megatron. Should his Lord have need of him whilst his systems were blissed into vulnerability -if only for a few moments- and he wasn’t able to obey…

It was this determined loyalty that had Soundwave detect the aberration before Megatron himself became aware of it. A spasm high up, crushingly powerful and recurring every few seconds. He lay his hands on the mech’s shoulders, his frame turning alert beneath him, and fixed his visor on the still-fuzzy optics. Withdrawing his cables, he used the movement to cover a scan of the mech’s systems whilst Megatron returned to himself.

The cramps were coming in waves, right beneath the gestational chamber and radiating throughout his abdominal systems. Like contractions.

Soundwave reached the conclusion as Megatron became aware of the sensation. He grimaced, though not from the pain, and lifted himself off of his Third’s depressuring spike. 

“Pain?” Soundwave asked, as direct as ever, watching the mech press a hand to his side. His field was buzzing and sharp, concerned and watchful.

Megatron hesitated before nodding fractionally, his gaze off to the side as his focus turned inwards. Under any other circumstances the pain would be considered so negligible as to be ignored. There was always some new battle modification still settling, some injury still healing or old scar twinging, that he never bothered Knock Out with them. The pains were known and dull; easily set to the back of his mind. 

He could not explain this pain, however, and had never felt anything like it before. He had also never carried before, and miscarriage was a real possibility for many months yet. The pains were growing stronger, too – strong enough for them to register in the plates around his optics.

“Summon Knock Out?” Soundwave asked, and the peculiarity of being the one doing all the talking was not lost on him. They were both unsettled by this turn of events.

“No,” Megatron replied, curt and certain. He produced a cleaning mesh from his subspace and began wiping away the evidence of their coupling, snicking his panel shut. “He may require equipment.”

Soundwave nodded, further disturbed by the statement and its implications. What was obviously also at the fore of Megatron’s mind. “Of course.” 

He moved down from the berth and cleaned himself as well, doing a rushed job of it to meet the Commander as he got to his feet. They hadn’t gotten out of Megatron’s quarters before he’d summoned Knock Out to stand by in the Medbay, torn between forwarding on the data he’d collected already for the doctor’s preparation and Megatron’s personal privacy. He elected to honour the latter, trusting that his Lord would not be as stoic as usual when it could impact the sparkling.

Knock Out met them at the door, needlessly gesturing to the waiting berth. Breakdown lingered in the back, obviously primed for an emergency and waiting instruction.

“Here, Lord Megatron. Soundwave, if you could give us some room…”

Megatron sat up on the same berth where he had learned of the sparkling’s existence, an arm held tight across his middle. Pressing on the plates, bracing them as if supporting an injury, was habit. “What’s happening, Knock Out?” he asked in a low voice, his tone caught between an order and a demand. 

The medic consulted his monitors, shaking his head at the readouts from the diagnostic sensors built into the berth. “I’m not sure – I need to do an internal scan,” he replied, already sliding the foot rests out into place. “If you would. Breakdown, scanning wand and nanite gel.”

Knock Out wasn’t making any positive assurances, and Megatron looked to the monitors as he lay back and complied. His medical knowledge was limited to what he could see to fix, and the readings meant little to him. There were no changes in the readouts aside from that of his heat-sink as the pains rose, held and eased away. 

Soundwave remained near the wall at the head of the berth, a presence Megatron was thankful for even though he couldn’t see the mech. He opened his valve cover when the doctor’s sharp, cool claws touched him, and clenched his fists at the easy intrusion. It must have been obvious to Knock Out what they had been doing when the pains started, but he made no comment – not even to professionally speculate as to whether one may have triggered the other.

The wand began transmitting data almost immediately, and Knock Out hummed and tipped his head at the readouts. “I’d like to leave the wand in place for a few minutes, my Lord, to get a comprehensive picture, but your gestation chamber is definitely misbehaving.”

Megatron bared his dente at the colloquialism, optics flashing barely-restrained fury. 

Knock Out held up his hands, doorwings dropping submissively at the response. “What I mean, my Lord, is that there isn’t anything wrong so far as I can tell, and the sparkling is still alive and well in there, but these spasms aren’t something I’d expect to be seeing. I can administer a relaxant directly into the musclemesh to see if that settles it for now, and perform a more thorough investigation afterwards.”

Breakdown took the statement as an order, vanishing through the doorway to find the appropriate chemical vial in the store room. No one saw him go, looking instead to the monitors as the wand continued transmitting.

“Ah, here we are,” Knock Out murmured, pulling a beam-mounted screen across and tapping at the moving graph with his free hand. The other twisted the scanning wand, inserting it a little deeper into the Commander’s valve. “There’s some synchronicity between the sparkling’s output and the spasms; enough to see a correlation between transit on the manufacturing lines and the contractions in the chamber.”

Megatron studied the screen a moment longer, then settled for watching the doctor between his knees instead. Knock Out was an expressive mech, and much of what he didn’t say or was about to say could be read in his face and frame. “Meaning?” 

Knock Out deactivated the wand and eased it out slowly, setting it aside on the waiting instrument tray. “Your gestational systems are being somewhat… sensitive, at the moment, to the sparkling’s increasing mass. Its frame construction has begun in earnest now, hence all the stray charge, and the chamber walls are beginning to distend. It’s a measure of centimetres, right now, so really not enough to get this upset over, and I can’t see any abnormalities that could be causing this degree of reaction. You can close now.”

Breakdown returned with the vial and loaded it into a syringe, the dosage already prepared. Knock Out took it and felt out a suitable gap in Megatron’s armour above his hip plating, then slid the long needle straight down. The hard, tight pain had plateaued into enough of a distraction that the needle was almost unfelt.

“Will it stop, or continue for the rest of the carriage?” Megatron bit out, pointedly not watching the lengthy injection taking place and clenching his fists to keep his body still on the berth. 

“It’s hard to say,” Knock Out replied, removing the needle and handing it off to Breakdown. He slid his fingers into the same gap he had injected into and began palpitating the area in hard, circular motions, encouraging the chemicals and pre-programmed nanites to spread. “Certainly it can be managed if it doesn’t, but I would hope that this is just a temporary affliction whilst your systems continue to adjust to creating a new life. It’s not dangerous, though.”

Megatron nodded, finding his frustration greatly tempered by the steady decrease in the pain. His internals around the chamber were beginning to feel stiff and numb, but it was a welcome alternative to what he’d imagined felt like the start of a miscarriage. 

“However,” Knock Out went on, sounding as if he truly did not want to raise this right now. He withdrew his hands and stepped back from the berth. “This brings me to another concern.”

Taking the reduction in pain and the doctor’s movement as indication he could rise, Megatron twisted himself to sit on the edge of the berth and levelled the racing-build with a steady look. Soundwave took position behind his right shoulder, on the other side of the berth, and uncomfortably intensified the focus on Knock Out.

The red mech folded his arms, glanced to Breakdown, and finally stepped forward again. “Lord Megatron, I’m afraid that we are simply not properly equipped to deal with a complicated carriage or emergence. There is a reason Vector Sigma was still the most favoured method of getting new sparks right up until the Core went dark. Carrying is complex, messy and at time mysterious business, necessitating specialist equipment we do not have. The vast majority of the crew, and the Decepticons in general, either have had their tanks removed, been rendered infertile by prolonged malnourishment or been installed with bolts. Space was at a premium in the Medbay when the Nemesis was commissioned, and obstetrics wasn’t included in the plans.”

His mouth twisted down in a line that made him appear older, more serious, and he motioned with one hand to Megatron’s chassis. “With the amount of repair work your body has sustained in your lifetime, in addition to the numerous frame modifications and upgrades, we cannot hope for a straightforward carriage. My goal now is for a safe one, and to achieve that goal I need equipment, chemicals and data. Case studies, alternative therapies, research further to the basics covered in training.”

Silence filled the Medbay for several moments, punctuated only by the blips and chirps of the monitors. Megatron regarded Knock Out coolly, his expression unreadable, but there was a sharp note of scepticism when he finally asked: “You want to return to Cybertron?”

Knock Out rolled one shoulder in a shrug. “For the greatest odds of seeing this carriage through, perhaps.” He looked to Soundwave for a moment, silently requesting a consultation with the data specialist. “Better still would be a dedicated medical facility, like Delphi, or a sizeable Neutral colony. Anywhere that’s dealt with sparklings and those capable of having them.”

That was… a significant request. Not only was the Nemesis nowhere near any such facility that he could think of, but the Autobots made it procedure to go through the remains of any facility that they ransacked to determine what was taken. Missing equipment as specialised as that which Knock Out spoke of would indicate, pretty damningly, that there was a high ranking carrier on board the Nemesis; information he did not dare allow into enemy hands.

He looked to Soundwave, and was unsurprised by the affirmative glyph he received. The nod for Knock Out’s benefit caught him a little off guard. With a sigh he hadn’t meant to let escape his vents, he nodded to the medic. He took in the monitors again – the lines and numbers that represented the sparkling growing unseen and unfelt up until now.

“Make your list, Knock Out, and include any other useful equipment we are lacking,” Megatron announced, decided. “If we can disguise it within a larger series of raids, all the better.”


	6. Tighter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This mental image wouldn't leave.

“Though there’s no direct danger to either of you _–hrnn-_ this is still an extremely _–bah!-_ short-term solution, my Lord.”

Hands braced against the wall of his quarters and dente gritted, Megatron cast the medic a withering look beneath his arm. “It need only last a day, two at most.”

Standing just behind the larger mech, Knock Out shook his head but obligingly jerked the long handle of the ratchet back another fraction of a turn. 

His shoulders burned, and short of bracing both pedes on his Lord’s thigh and pulling with every hydraulic cable in his body, he had nothing left to give. “Well _-gah!-_ I’m afraid that’s as tight as I can get it. If you want your old dimensions back, I’ll need some more brute force. Shall I summon Breakdown?” 

Megatron remained motionless against the wall, his pedes braced apart and hands pressed high and hard to the bulkhead. His ventilations were already hot from the flurry of generative processes running wild in his systems, and now they sounded slightly strained as well. His voice, however, was steady and solid. What of his body he could still control, he _did._

“Do.”

Though Megatron was a stocky mech, his armour had always been svelte to his massive frame. There was no wasted mesh, no erroneous cable bundling or loose hoses in a build that was honed to brutal physical survival and combat. His armour was tight, designed to interlock and overlap, permitting as few gaps and vulnerable points as full movement would allow. 

He was leaving the first trimester of carriage, however, and entering a period of great physical changes. His protoform had begun to swell all over as nutrients and excess additives from his fuel were stored in preparation for the more rapid stages of the sparkling’s growth, which direct fueling alone would struggle to keep on top of. The gestation chamber had also grown as the sparkling’s protoform took on more solid mass, and the distention now measured seven inches.

Not much, realistically, but more than enough to be noticeable. If an Autobot medic clapped sights on him, a detailed scan would confirm any suspicions. The Decepticon Commander was well aware that he was watched as closely as Optimus on the battlefield by tacticians and specialists, searching for any weakness or tell that could be used against them. Megatron _had_ to be on the front line when they raided the Iatros medical centre, and he had to look normal: strong, impenetrable; _not_ like a first-time carrier swelling out of his armour.

He’d been managing to keep his armour more or less closed over the last week, but not fuel retention and the sparkling’s growth spurt had exceeded the tension load of his locks and thus the ability to force them closed. Knock Out had been ratcheting them shut manually for the better part of an hour, working from his arms and thighs inwards, and Megatron had the queer feeling of being compressed in hot cocoon. It was uncomfortable, but not painful, though if the raid were to be delayed another two weeks, it undoubtedly would have hurt to crush his body so.

They had now reached his raised abdominal plates, and the real threat of discovery. Knock Out had assured that a surprising amount of manhandling could be performed at this stage without risking the sparkling, but that the Commander himself would need to be aware of potentially overheating, a degree of restriction in his movements and, worst of all, one of the manual locks breaking under pressure and unravelling the whole façade.

Megatron was determined, however, and had not made a single sound of complaint. He was close to releasing a growl in the privacy of his quarters after Knock Out had left to fetch another ratchet, but swallowed it back and focused instead on his ventilations. If he could not maintain the image of normalcy here, then he would be doomed on the battlefield.

Breakdown looked as pleased to come into the room as Megatron was to see him, but the assisting medic gave a respectful nod as he accepted the ratchet from Knock Out. Though by no means friendly, both mechs were becoming easier with one another, and Megatron was developing a respect for his steady hands and no-nonsense attitude. 

“Alright, Breakdown,” Knock Out said by way of introducing the taller mech to his task. He lay one hand on Megatron’s exposed back, tracing the sharp fingers of his other through the gaping spaces in his armour along his right side. “Basic cranking, just like post-op, only requiring a lot more muscle behind it. We’ll tighten on both sides, alternating, working inwards, and then we’ll probably both need to be on the handle to get the central plates tight. How does that sound to you, Lord Megatron?”

It sounded pretty horrendous, but Megatron gave an affirmative grunt. He splayed his hands on the bulkhead again, raising his shoulders to open his frame and allow his armour the greatest possible flex. The pose also steadied him during the long, arduous process.

Breakdown secured the connector on the ratchet to the Commander’s locking pins and braced a hand against his chassis, the other taking a firm hold of the handle. The blue mech grunted with each pull, his shoulder rocking and head bowed to the task. 

Megatron tipped back his helm and shuttered his optics as the constriction of his armour moved abruptly from ‘uncomfortable’ to _‘painful’._

Knock Out came around to his other side, his question posed quietly so as not to give Breakdown pause. They _needed_ to do this, however difficult. “Are you alright, my Lord? We don’t need to pull every plate completely flush if the, discomfort, is going to hinder you in battle.”

He shook his head, the lines in his neck flexing. “As close to spec as you can manage, Knock Out. Do not concern yourself with my comfort.”

The medic gave him a dubious look, which deepened when Breakdown finished the first plate and raised his brows at him. Shrugging, Knock Out nodded for him to continue, then stood back to watch their secret forced slowly behind armoured walls.


	7. Preservation

Megatron returned from Iatros overheating violently and bordering on shutting down, staggering through the groundbridge buffered by a troop of Eradicons who were simultaneously holding him up and driving him forward. Soundwave had had them bridged directly into the Medbay, and the soldiers fled Knock Out’s shouts as soon as their Lord was set on his knees.

“Primus, frag it – Breakdown! We’ve got to get these plates open,” the medic snarled, already slamming the ratchet into place beneath a lateral vent and pulling. “Preferably _off_.”

A flurry of movement beneath his hands. Vibrations, Megatron realised dimly over the roaring in his audios, as Breakdown dropped next to him with another ratchet. The pulls were sharp and violent, yanking at his body as they worked at him from both sides. Relief came in increments, the suffocating pressure lifting away one small section at a time.

It was still so hot, though. His coolant was saturated with heat, running warm about his systems and churning his tanks. Energon was thinning, losing viscosity within his fuel lines, and tiny beads of moisture caught beneath his plates was steaming and spitting. Errors and warnings dominated the lower half of his HUD. His claws were rattling against the decking, and he’d be struck down before he admitted to himself that he was afraid.

“Lord Megatron?”

Knock Out’s voice, close to his audio and speaking over the deafening crush of air bellowing through his filters. A sharp hand on his chest, pulling at his seam. His mouth was open, panting, his systems dumping heat through every vent.

“My Lord, you’re back on the Nemesis and you’ll be fine. Discount whatever your readings are telling you,” Knock Out went on when red optics slid into focus, though they didn’t shift their gaze to him. “Overheating has caused an error with your plating locks – I can’t override it until we get your temperature down. We need to get the largest plates of your armour off manually and expose as much of your mesh as possible. Please, you need to sit up, Megatron.”

Breakdown shot the chief medic a wry look around Megatron’s pauldron. “It’d have been better if the locks _had_ failed.” Bracing his shoulder beneath the larger mech’s arm, he coaxed him upright with a grunt of effort. “Can we get him onto a berth?”

“I don’t want to cover his dorsals,” Knock Out replied, pitched equally soft. He was working through the twelve separate locking points that secured the bulkhead-like slab of armour across Megatron’s chassis. Having the mech sat on his heels made the process exponentially quicker. 

Within a minute, the armour clanged heavily onto the deck, exposing the second, thinner layer of metal that afforded addition protection to his spark. Knock Out moved onto the lower plates; the ones most heavily constricted. 

Breakdown kept a hand on Megatron’s chassis until he was sure the mech was steady, then joined ratcheting loose the abdominal plates. “Doc, the bitlet alright?” 

Knock Out didn’t look up, lifting away another plate and placing a hand on the hot mesh beneath. “Fine. Go get the coolant packs.” When his assistant kept ratcheting, his tone snapped to that of an order. “Now, Breakdown!”

As more of his armour was loosened and removed, Megatron became aware of more than just the heat and relentless pressure. Knock Out’s hands were quick, confident and firm, pressing and pulling in a manner he’d become used to. His mesh was sensitive and sore from where he’d been burned by the inner metal of his armour, and he was _hungry_ beneath the nausea. In synch with the pounding headache consuming the front of his helm, his spark throbbed in hard, frantic beats.

Fear. _Fear_. It had been so long since he’d felt it so acutely, he’d forgotten how visceral it was. 

“Report,” he rasped, his vocoder dry and static-laden to his own audios. 

Knock Out exvented heavily in a sigh, but his field indicated relief despite the urgency that still consumed his hands. “Short of some of the miscellaneous items we were getting to give the impression of building a bio-weapon, the mission was a complete success. The Eradicons had managed to secure the entire obstetric wing before the Autobot reinforcements showed up. We bridged the equipment and computers straight out.”

Then Optimus Prime had arrived, Megatron affirmed, connecting the points. The first eleven hours of the short-term incursion had gone smoothly, and despite leading the troops directly, the Commander’s systems had barely warmed. Then the second ship had arrived and his physical match had come charging onto the scene. 

He would have relished the challenge, the hot burn of slamming Optimus into the dirt and scorching his plating with round after round of plasma fire, but his systems had barely coped. It was only the fortuitous timing of Starscream’s aerial bombardment of the facility that had covered his retreat, leaving the Autobots with the impression that they had taken everything they’d come for and were destroying the rest out of spite. 

Megatron had never feared Optimus. Been enraged by him, certainly, as well as every other emotion on the spectrum between disappointment and loathing since their break in front of the Senate. But he had never been afraid of facing him in combat; nor any other Autobot, in fact.

But it was Optimus’s sword sliding off his cannon that had put this hard, hurting flutter in his spark. Megatron had felt _fear_ when the unbridled attacks had kept coming, and his pressure-aching systems had begun to heat into the red. It hadn’t impeded his own attacks – he would not have been alive if they had – but it had put the sparkling at the fore of his mind. The sparkling, here in battle, with nothing but its Carrier’s parries and speed to keep it alive.

It had unsettled him, and that the anxiety lingered now disturbed him more.

When Knock Out reached to find the next lock, Megatron caught his wrist. “More protocols have onlined,” he said. It felt important to tell the medic. It could be contributing to the system stress and overheating, and there could be a patch to override it. 

Knock Out said nothing, just waited in silence. Megatron released his hand, explaining, “I _feared_ for it, Knock Out. Is that some, protective generative coding?”

The medic made soft sound, as if clearing his intake. “There’s, ah, no such thing, my Lord.” He saw Breakdown in the doorway with his hands full of blue gel-like packs, then looked back to Megatron with an expression bordering on sympathetic. “Feelings towards the sparkling’s welfare don’t materialise or get triggered by carrying. That’s just natural.”

Megatron found he had nothing to say to that, internalising the realisation and offlining his optics. His HUD was not as filled with red messages as it had been only minutes ago, but there were still scrolling alerts to attend to. He concentrated on terminating the errant threads whilst Knock Out and Breakdown worked around him.

The cooling packs burned, bitterly cold against his mesh, and the feeling spread as they continued packing the blue gel against his frame. It eased into a prickle after a minute, and then gradually became soothing as the temperature difference shrank. His spark remained pulsating, however, thudding like a physical thing in its casing. He was acutely aware of the missing armour, and lifted his hands to both hold the packs to his mesh and shield his abdominal plates. 

It eased the ache in his spark, but only marginally. Fear was not quelled so easily, it seemed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your kind comments, as well as for leaving kudos and generally supporting this fic. There are times when writing this feels so pointlessly self-indulgent, and it's great to hear that someone is getting a kick out of reading.


	8. Deep

They had gutted the equipment stores of the Iatros medical facility. For the first time in months, the Nemesis medical bay was overflowing with replacement parts, chemical compounds, raw materials, and an array of valuable diagnostic, engineering and surgical equipment. Knock Out was riding the same high of the troop’s morale - it made a massive difference in mentality to go into combat with the knowledge that every survivable injury was one that could be soundly repaired with fresh parts, as opposed to with those of the dead or, worse, a repair wholly improvised because of a lack of materials.

The large Eradicon crew compliment (and, indeed, some of the officers as well) were also enjoying the buzzing rumour mill. It was inescapably obvious that _someone_ on board was carrying a sparkling, and a cautious betting pool had opened. More than likely it was a ranking officer, thus the high-profile raid conducted by the Decepticon flagship. Beyond that, speculation ran rife.

The Nemesis was now moving on to bolster General Strika’s advance six day’s travel away. The Autobots were scrabbling about in the rubble, and intelligence was already coming back that they were warning other medical outposts and chemical manufacturing plants to go onto high alert. Starsceam had pointed out with a laugh that Optimus Prime was wasting time, energy and resources worrying about the Decepticon’s chemical warfare division, whilst Breakdown was putting together an obstetric suite. Even Megatron had had to smile at that.

One sizeable piece of equipment had been wrestled out of the facility by eight Eradicons. It hadn’t been on the list of essentials, but it had commanded so much space in the centre of the main room that the soldiers had assumed whichever of the command staff was carrying would have want of it. The temperature controlled oil bath had a variety of what Knock Out described as ‘passive’ repair functions. It could be filled with nanite-infused energon and mesh-damaged mechs submerged for rapidly accelerated healing , as their autorepair harvested materials straight through the endomass as well as via internally dedicated points of material exchange. In terms of obstetrics, the same composition could be set with a higher charge to aid in long labours.

Megatron saw it for what is was: a symbol of the destroyed high castes, dripping with the luxury of laziness and comfort. He would not see his injured soldiers scrabbling for a turn lying inside when there were faster, equally effective methods of repair in the medbay. It was decadent, obscene, and he vowed that he would not be putting one damn pede in the thing when the sparkling was finally due to emerge.

In a foul mood from three nights of incomplete recharge cycles, and plagued with overheating errors, Megatron had had to be impressed with Knock Out’s bearings to even _suggest_ that he just _try_ it. The bath had been installed in a back room of the Medbay, adjacent to the overflow storage room that Breakdown was gradually repurposing, and was sitting full, chilled and wastefully empty. 

Now reclined back with his arms resting atop the sides of the bath, Megatron considered his reflection in the oil and decided that whilst he still loathed the thing, he could tolerate its presence on his ship and even, perhaps, appreciate its uses. 

Out of necessity, he wore his armor looser now, and removed sections of it in the sanctuary of his quarters. He’d kept every plate on stepping into the bath, despite Knock Out’s assurances of his absolute privacy and of Breakdown’s presence next door. The cool oil could reach his protoform beneath loose and flared plates, and the bath’s internal circulation and refrigeration systems kept the temperature refreshingly low. It brought the temperature of his frame back down to comfortable levels, and carried the additional bonus of reducing some of the swelling. The difference was marginal, but the impact had been enough to make him sigh. 

Megatron had gone so far as to shutter his optics and sink a little lower into the bath when Starscream comm.ed him for permission to enter. He dismissed the first three responses that came to mind, sitting up so that the oil sloshed up to the edge and ran thickly down his chassis. Pulling his armour a little tighter, he sent an affirmative glyph and fixed his optics to the door. 

Starscream stepped inside as if he hadn’t been kept waiting, and was arriving at the exact moment of his choosing. He cast an appreciative optic over the bath and, with a glanced to the mech inside to assess the danger, ran the claws of one hand across the length of its rim. 

“It’s gratifying to see that the fruits of our recent raid are being put to good use,” he murmured, the smirk as clear in his evenly-toned words as on his faceplates. 

Not rising to the bait, because Starscream knew perfectly well of his dim view of self-indulgence, Megatron spoke as if they were simply meeting on the command Bridge. “What do you want, Starscream?” 

His wings pricked up, inquisitive in that wanting way of Seekers, and Megatron watched him perch a fraction of his weight on the edge of the bath. Starscream’s optics lingered on the shimmering liquid before meeting his commander’s. 

"I wanted to speak to you in private, off the record.” 

“Go ahead.” 

Starscream lifted on elegantly crafted pede onto the edge of the bath, then dipped his toes into the oil. A rumbled warning from Megatron had him think better of attempting to join the other mech, and he withdrew the extremity quickly back to the ledge. He rested a forearm across his bent knee, instead. 

“The crew are talking.” 

“I’m aware of that.” Megatron’s expression was perfectly neutral, his tone unreadable. 

Starscream sighed, put-upon, and cocked his head. “How long are you intending to try and hide this, Master?” 

"From our enemies, indefinitely.” 

“Of course,” the Seeker replied, biting his tongue. Sometimes Megatron was _deliberately_ dense, he was sure of it. “News of you condition would invite a renewed wave of vigorous assassination attempts, and after the little scraplet is born, it will forever be targeted…” 

Starscream trailed off at Megatron’s expression, clearing his throat. “But of course, you’re perfectly aware of all that, my Lord. _Ahem._ I am asking with regards to the Decepticons on board this ship. They would willingly be ordered to secrecy, mind-wiped if you would prefer, to prevent this information from spreading. But they will find out, whether you will it or not, and better to control the rumours than try to halt them completely.” 

Megatron’s hands curled into fists atop the edges of the bath, and he tipped his helm back to glare at the ceiling instead of his second in command. “I am not making an announcement of my personal life to the crew.” 

"You wouldn’t need to,” Starscream replied, rolling one shoulder up in a shrug. “An overheard conversation here, a careless word from a person in authority there… It is the sparkling’s parentage that will be of greatest debate.” 

“I see.” 

Megatron still would not look at him, and Starscream took the opportunity of the larger mech’s diverted gaze to stare, running a critical optic over the areas of armour and purple mesh that he could see above the oil. There was something… inescapably _warm_ about his frame, now, which he could only put down to code-sparked instinct. He dismissed the thought, pushing on. 

“We could insinuate that it’s mine.” 

Now Megatron _did_ raise his helm, levelling a look on the Seeker that was scathingly incredulous. “You want my heir, Starscream?" 

Starscream chuffed a laugh and put a hand to his chassis. “No, of course not, but it would be plausible and an… acceptable parentage." 

There was silence for almost a minute as Megatron digested that. The implications of what Starscream deliberately _wasn’t_ saying. Finally, and in a voice softer than he’d intended, he replied, “We could just as easily imply that the sire is dead. A fallen Decepticon.” 

The softness, the borderline- _hesitant_ volume lent Starscream boldness to speak what needed to be said. The crux of the concern that had motivated him to come here. He watched Megatron carefully, as if anticipating a sudden, violent movement. “Better than leaving space for rumours that it’s Autobot.” 

Megatron tensed with a snarling whine of hydraulics and tensile cables, the spiked pauldrons framing his powerful neck curling inwards as his hands gripped the sides of the bath. “Careful, Starscream.” 

Starscream leaned away, his field drawing so tight that it vanished beneath his plating. His wings slid down into a submissive hold, making his frame appear smaller and meeker. “Apologies, my Lord,” he uttered, touching a hand to his sigil. 

He stood to leave and Megatron did not stop him, nor speak again as he crossed back towards the door he had entered through. 

It was another conversation they needed to have. Soundwave and Starscream both had more than strong suspicion as to the parentage of the sparkling, and currently could only hope that no one with a loose vocaliser had made the connection. Megatron and Optimus’s history was _heated_ , but not everyone was aware of how personal and intimate that heat was. 

More than that, Starscream kept returning to the inescapable fact that they had Optimus Prime’s sparkling on-board. In gestation, and a long way off being born, but still a definite presence within the Decepticon commander’s frame. 

They could not turn a blind optic to such a powerful bargaining chip, should they ever have need of it. 


	9. Outpatient

The name they’d settled on was Impactor, in the end. It had been Megatron’s suggestion: an old friend, one who’d been involved in the early days of the Decepticon movement but not a central figure. Recently deceased and known to few on the Nemesis, but easily connected with their Lord should anyone go digging. They’d never actually lain together – Impactor preferred smaller builds, and when Megatron had made it to the Arena he’d been occupied for a data clerk with slim hips and grab-able smokestacks. It felt odd to assign him the role of Sire in this fabrication.

Not that there weren’t still seeds of doubt amongst the crew as to the sparkling’s progenitors, though it was an acceptable doubt that actually served to completely quash any suspicion of the real sire’s allegiance. Starscream had made a few carefully suggestive remarks within earshot of a few Eradicons, and begun _fawning_ over him on the Bridge. Bringing him fuel. Making concerned enquiries as to his comfort and needs. It was quietly maddening, but then his agitation fed back into the lies. Soundwave said that one current theory amongst the rank and file was that Starscream had claimed the sparkling as his own in a political play, and was still working on acclimatizing their Lord to the idea.

The only ones who knew the truth were his second and third in commands, and the medics. Knock Out and Breakdown demanded a great deal of faith and trust from him now, which Megatron found himself helpless to give as he negotiated this strange, challenging period of his life.

That did not, however, mean that he was some meek and compliant drone in their hands. Nor that he appreciated surprises. Such as Breakdown meeting him alone for his appointment, with the chief medic nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Knock Out?” he demanded as soon as the doors hissed closed behind him.

Breakdown stood by the lone berth, his shoulders squared and fists tight to his sides. He looked like he was as happy with the situation as Megatron was, but resolved to it all the same. When he answered, his voice was respectful and steady. “In surgery, Lord Megatron. It’s been decided – I mean, we’ve discussed it, and Knock Out thinks it’d be best if I were your primary in matters relating to the sparkling. Sir.”

Megatron let his anger simmer a few moments, allowing it to build through his field like a black miasma that had the frontliner’s plates contract minutely to his mesh. Then he took a single, looming step forward. 

“And why,” he began tightly, “does _my chief medic_ presume to consign me to his _assistant_?”

If Cybertronians had an oesophagus, Breakdown would have gulped. As it was, his vocaliser did reset with a crackle of static. “Well, my Lord, sparkling bearing isn’t his speciality, but with all the work I’ve been doing setting up the obstetric suite and going through the data files, it’s becoming mine. Knock Out’s got a pretty full schedule most of the time with maintaining the crew, and he feels that with all the extra time I’ve had with the equipment and information specific to your condition that I’m more suited to overseeing your carriage.” 

He held up his hands, and the pitch of his field suggested that the gesture was simultaneously appeasing and reassuring, though not submissive. “He’ll still oversee the more invasive examinations, of course, and the, uh, birth, but I’ll take your regular appointments. And I’ll be on call, all the time. I can leave any procedure almost immediately if you need comm., whereas Knock Out can get a little tied up.”

Megatron continued to stare the mech down, though his temper was subsiding as he considered Breakdown’s argument. He made some valid points, and he had come to respect the mech’s quiet professionalism and confident hands, but the fact remained that he was a medic’s assistant. 

Finally he gave a slight, curt nod. Not approval by any means, but an acceptance that he was willing to allow it. If only on a trial basis.

Breakdown’s reaction was far less understated. Hot air huffed from his vents in an explosive sigh, and his yellow optics brightened with relief reflected across his faceplates. He indicated the berth, apparently keen to prove his competency now that he had permission.

“If you would take seat, my Lord,” he ushered, watching how the larger mech moved as he sat up on the edge of the mesh padding. Some stiffness in his lower back, and there was a sluggishness in his joints that suggested incomplete recharge cycles. “We’ll start with a review of where you are now, and then address any concerns you have.”

When Megatron was settled, hands curled atop his knees, Breakdown turned on the screen on the wall. The berth’s diagnostic systems initialized, humming quietly, and within seconds there was a simplified outline of the commander’s frame on the display. Breakdown zoomed in on his midsection, highlighting the pyramidal shape of the gestation chamber. It glowed orange, and an indistinct white blob sat in the narrow point of the base.

“So you’re entering the third phase now, which means that frame fabrication has begun in earnest,” Breakdown said, watching Megatron study the screen. He didn’t need it for illustrative purposes at this point – it was just good to give the Commander something other than _him_ to look at. 

“Up until now, the sparklet’s been stabilizing and a central processing unit has grown around it. Plates are going to begin to develop around it, and in a few weeks the spark will descend into its chamber and the sparkling’ll start to look more like a mecha on the scans.”

He approached the berth and indicated Megatron’s abdominal plates. The armour was notably separated now, revealing slivers of purple and grey mesh between the plates. There was no significant roundness yet – only an overall expansion that reached -in varying degrees- across his entire frame.

“What you’re experiencing now is distension, which comes with some natural discomfort. The walls of the gestation chamber are a pleated latticework of metal rather than a solid tank, and they’ll never have expanded before. Your internals are heated from feeding the manufacturing plant, your gestation chamber is just starting to swell with the cushioning fluid that’ll keep the sparkling’s components lubricated and protected up until emergence, and your hardware’s being put under pressure unlike anything you’ve experienced before. Eventually they’ll start to move to accommodate the expanding chamber, but for now any shifting is going to be a matter of mechanometers.” 

Megatron was listening attentively, to Breakdown’s relief, and he moved back to the screen. The scanners had had time to compile a more comprehensive scan, and a column of figures had appeared to one side of the display. He touched a blunt finger to some of the numbers. “The good news is your mesh is saturated with compounds well within normal parameters for this stage. The manufacturing plant shouldn’t start leaching from your frame, but of course we’ll keep an eye on that. Spontaneous growth spurts are common in first-time carriages, and you may need some additives in your fuel to compensate.”

Breakdown folded his hands to indicate that he was finished, and awaited any questions his Lord might have. Megatron’s expression was thoughtful, and he’d relaxed his posture on the berth as the frontliner had spoken, likely without realising. Both hands were set just behind him on the padding, straightening his backstrut and easing some of the pressure across his abdomen. 

The door hissed open before the commander could speak, both their helms snapping to look.

Starscream came blustering inside, wings high and gesticulating arms as animated as his faceplates. He came straight to the berth, his claws lacing together. “Lord Megatron! When I heard you were in the Medbay, I came right away.”

The carrying mech scowled when Starscream made to touch his arm, leaning away. However the Seeker had already desisted and moved towards the screen, scowling at the display. “What does all this mean? Explain it to me now.”

Standing next to the berth, Breakdown squared himself in the same way as he had when Megatron had entered. Now, however, there was no timidity to be found anywhere in his frame or field. “Commander Starscream, I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave. This is a private appointment, and you did not accompany my patient as a chaperone. You need to wait outside.”

Starscream gawked openly for a moment, then his voice rose an octave. “Wait outside. _Your_ patient? How dare-”

“Starscream,” Megatron cut in, low and flat.

“Ah, yes Master?” he replied, drawn up short.

“Get out.”

Starscream brought a hand to his chassis, curling his talons over his canopy as he bowed. “Yes of course. I shall, ah, speak to you later.” He shot the frontliner a withering look before sweeping towards the door.

Breakdown fidgeted his weight across his pedes in the silence that followed. Then he brought a knuckle to his mouth, clearing his vocaliser.

Megatron cocked an eyebrow at the assistant medic. “You may proceed, Breakdown.”

The smaller mech twitched, startled from his reverie. Then his expression eased into a smile, there and gone again. “Of course. If you would like to lie back and make yourself comfortable, Lord Megatron. I’ll see if I can do anything for those constricted lines.”


	10. Basking

The times it was easy, even good, were when Megatron was most troubled. 

Pain and background discomfort were old and familiar, so wholly entwined with the path he had carved for himself that he noticed their absence as much as their presence. Megatron’s body was conditioned to toil and strain; to being underfuelled, overworked, constantly healing or recovering and yet still primed for rapid, violent exertion.

Now, exempt from rationing, his very protoform saturated with the excess nutrients, better maintained than he had been in centuries, and with carrier coding singing warm and content at the base of his spark, Megatron was disturbed by how good he felt.

Such a _selfish_ risk, an event that had no place in his visions of revolution and conquest, should not feel so good.

Once Strike’s report was concluded and the screen returned to the scrolling data of the battlefield, Megatron had left Starscream on the bridge and returned to his quarters. He had not needed rest or fuel, was suffering no physical complaints aside from a hot twinge that came and went about his backstrut and pelvis. He had simply wanted solitude, away from the watchful optics of the crew. Starscream said they were admiring his form, now glowing with the warm power of internal creation. Megatron thought they were gawping, and was rapidly losing his patience for it.

In the privacy of his quarters, however, in the dark and quiet, he could begin to relax his mind into the pleasant sensations of a contented frame. His processor threads were busy with purpose, and his midrift was warm with manufacturing heat as the frame inside changed and grew in increments that escaped his understanding. He cradled the area with his hands as he lay on his berth, feeling the beginnings of a localised distortion against the underside of his claws. 

His mind was just beginning to drift when Soundwave pinged a request for entry. It was marked with multiple glyphs of _non-urgent/off-duty_. 

The Rut had passed and Megatron had felt no inclination to take anyone to his berth since the accursed charge had finally stopped wreaking havoc with his body. However his dynamic with his Third, despite all their efforts to maintain that the Rut had been an exceptional event, had irrevocably changed. It was not affection, exactly, but there was undeniably a greater sense of ease in their interactions away from the command deck.

He returned Soundwave’s ping with an invitation to join him.

The mech’s distinctive shadow appeared across the floor, the long flat planes of his arms held close to his body as he entered and left the door to shut. Megatron did not move from the berth, waiting for Soundwave to enter his quarters fully. Once he located the resting mech, the dark screen of his faceplate tipped towards the floor. 

“Projections compiled from Strika’s reports – completed.” He held out a datapad demonstratively, then set it aside on the desk. 

Silence drew out, but Megatron was not inclined to be the one to break it. He could sense the faint edge of tension in his posture and the angle of his arms. Clearly Soundwave was gathering his thoughts, or –more likely- battling with them. 

Finally, after almost a minute of quiet, the slender mech broached: “Aid required?”

“No,” Megatron replied, watching the screen for some small clue. It was not like Soundwave to fish for a reason to be with him: he either stated his purpose outright or took up a sentry-like position with his Lord’s permission. This was a more indirect request for closeness. 

Rumble and Frenzy were six days overdue to report in, Megatron recalled. He pushed himself partially upright on the berth and shifted to one side, creating space as he added, “But I would not reject company.”

Soundwave’s arms drooped a little, his helm twitching fractionally, and then he was climbing with uncanny grace up onto the elevated berth sized for Megatron’s frame. Their fields mingled with warm familiarity, neither showing any traces of arousal or anticipation. 

Engine humming, Megatron reclined back fully and turned onto his side, presenting Soundwave with his back. It was a gesture of trust, relaxed and informal. Moments later, he felt the other mech shift and fidget until he was led against his backstrut. The dramatic ratio of Megatron’s chassis to pelvic width meant there was enough of a gap at his waist that Soundwave could slide one long arm underneath, bringing them fully flush.

Megatron offlined his optics and felt his hydraulics slacken, his engine cycling down to a restful pitch. The frame at his back was soothing in a way he didn’t wish to think too much about, solid and warm. 

A hand touched the high point of his hip, angled down towards the separated plates over the sparkling. 

“Acceptable?” 

He would not have denied the mech even if he had not asked permission, though Soundwave’s respectful caution was appreciated. Megatron tucked his arm a little higher, granting space.

“Go ahead.”

The blunt ends of Soundwave’s arms separated into delicate fingers, and flexed out with hesitation bordering on reverence before lowering to touch the heated plates. After a moment he flattened the extremity, the long line of his forearm reaching down across Megatron’s thigh before terminating in his elbow. Soundwave’s fingertips slid between the gaps in the grey mech’s armour, touching the warm mesh underneath.

Megatron cycled a deep ventilation, surprised at how easy it was to relax within the cradling hold. His systems were rapidly cycling down towards unconsciousness.

Soundwave kept his field subdermal, as a rule. It was a shock when it flared out in absolute extreme fits of emotion. Those glacial shocks, usually of rage, had been enough to send an Autobot or Eradicons running in the past. Now, however, it leached out freely, blending with the larger mech’s as it had weeks before on this berth. 

They held each other chastely, their interfacing systems cold, and Megatron felt before he consciously realized that Soundwave was taking comfort in his ease. Curling tight into the warm swell of a contented carrying frame. He doubted his Third would enter a recharge cycle like this, or that it was what Soundwave wanted, anyway.


	11. Rinse

With the onslaught of new internal processes, systems reports, recalibrations, compensatory material processing and an operating system that permitted no extended periods for rest, the purging had been inevitable. And, despite Megatron’s best efforts in willpower and self-control, inescapable.

He was, as Starscream had put it, taking a ‘carrier day’. Megatron had wanted to send him across the bridge via blunt force to his condescending faceplate at the suggestion, but had been at too great a risk of purging fuel all over the deck to do more than glower. 

At least Breakdown was certain that it was temporary – in the literature, it was exceptionally rare for mecha to experience this degree of fuel sensitivity throughout their carriage. Chronic purging cycles signalled a move into a new developmental phase for the sparkling, which upset the carrier’s systems until they adjusted. A day, perhaps two, and then the sensitivity of his tanks would return to normal until the next phase.

This one was caused by the final composition of the sparkling’s central neural system, which required a highly potent mix of minerals and chemical compounds in quantities that typically ingested fuel could not meet. The deficit was in Megatron’s swollen mesh, and the convergence of the rich leeched materials and fuel in his lines was… internally distressing.

After almost seven hours of violent retching, most of it with an empty tank, Megatron had moved from frustrated to agitated to weary, and was now operating dangerously close to exhausted and miserable. He’d managed to work from his personal screens for an hour, but then the glow and scrolling glyphs had begun to exacerbate the nausea and he’d abandoned anything that wasn’t purging or cleaning up after himself. 

Giving up on any pretence of reading at his desk or dozing on the berth, Megatron had moved into a corner of his attached wash rack. It was horrendously wasteful, but leaving the cleanser to run streaming hot at his pedes seemed to help. Actually being under the spray had made the retching twice as bad, but the clean smell and condensation easing through his vents and misting his mesh was soothing.

His internals hurt, ached from the strain of forcing fuel and then fumes backwards through intake valves designed to prevent such a thing. The buzz of activity around the gestation chamber made it worse. Megatron sat with his legs bent, arms crossed over his knees and helm tipped back against the wall. The swollen curve of his abdomen rested between his thighs. Sitting exaggerated the size of it, but it still looked bigger to his eyes today than it had yesterday.

The Autobots could have boarded the Nemesis right now. He wasn’t getting up. When Soundwave sent a softly-gilded request for entry, Megatron sent blunt, uncaring assent. It was the end of the main duty shift and his Third was likely checking in on him. 

He suspected there’d been an argument with Starscream as to who would be the one to do so, and that he should expect to suffer the Seeker later on. 

“That’s close enough, Soundwave,” he muttered when his Third reached the threshold of the door. He drew a hand down his face, pinching his optics, and grimaced at how numb his mesh felt. The nausea needed to pass soon or his tank would run into the red, which he had received more than one forewarning lecture about.

Soundwave knelt at the very edge of the washrack, not quite entering. Megatron cast him a dry look from the corner of his vision then covered his optics again, cycling a shakey vent.

A moment later, the feathery tips of a datacable touched his shoulder. Though Soundwave clearly thought he dodged the point of concern – standing in dreg-tainted cleanser with further risk of being purged on – he had, in fact, missed it entirely. The soft contact, and the living electromagnetic field behind it, sent a cold wave bristling across Megatron’s sensor net. His internals clenched, tank churning, and he leaned away to retch painfully hard onto the tiles. 

The fit passed after a minute, and he spat and broke the rope of coolant thick with repair nanites with the back of his hand. He was long past purging fumes, let alone fuel. That anything at all had come up indicated that he’d ruptured something. His internal diagnostics confirmed that it wasn’t remotely a cause for concern, but the effects of it were viscerally disgusting.

“I didn’t say it for your benefit,” Megatron spat, his tone poisonous. 

To his credit Soundwave appeared contrite but did not cower. His screen dipped in apology and the offending datacable was completely withdrawn into its housing, but he didn’t draw any further attention to the purging. Megatron had never been one to tolerate pity, especially directed at him.

They sat with just the sound of the cleanser raining down until Soundwave shifted again. “Contact from the Autobots was made an hour ago.”

Megatron’s head snapped up, and his surprise was enough that he was unaffected by the dizzying wave that followed. He was _more_ bothered that this was the first he was hearing of it. “What? Why wasn’t I informed?”

Soundwave, in a rare display of his dry humour, tipped his helm dramatically to one side. When Megatron flicked his optics back, conceding the point, he drew a hand to the base of his screen. The display changed to their database’s image of Optimus, indicating that the communication had been audio only. Likely transmitted over a significant distance. 

The recording played in bits, and the shifting intensity of the Prime’s voice suggested that it had been a relatively length speech. 

“The Autobots will not permit… biological warfare… temporary ceasefire… discuss terms… specific chemicals… in exchange for… trapped forces on Telios… await your response.”

Soundwave offered the complete audio file on a datachip, holding the slug up but not outwards. Ordinarily he’d have simply transmitted the file across, but he did not want to risk triggering another purging fit given the carrier’s present hypersensitivity. 

Megatron took a moment to digest the distilled message, finding it a disturbingly great effort to concentrate. He was exhausted, in every sense, and needed rest and for his starving systems to process fuel. A veritable landmine of tactical manoeuvres and negotiations was beyond the scope of his speculative mind, right now.

The moon had been overrun a week ago, though intelligence reported that there were still Decepticons in the old tunnels beneath the compound. Telios had been one of Shockwave’s outposts, and though his equipment had been destroyed, the information the mecha stationed there possessed was highly valuable. When the Autobots had made a formidable push to take back ground from the Decepticons, the moon had been a low priority amidst multiple bases. 

To get it back without a shot fired in exchange for dangerous chemicals that they presently had no intention of using was almost tempting. _Almost._

“I will not pander to Prime,” he said, narrowing his optics on the distant shower controls. It had been wasteful to leave the cleanser running when he was alone, but it had been the only thing that helped. With Soundwave here, however, it was borderline obscene. 

The data-specialist noticed the look and, after waiting with an extended arm for a nod of confirmation, flicked off the shower. He then rose sharply to his pedes when Megatron braced a hand to the tiles, apparently making to stand. 

Megatron did not immediately try to rise, however. Just reaching a hand back to the wall had made his head spin. It would take an age to get to the berth at this rate. “To hand over the chemicals,” he bit out, “would undermine the cover for the raids.” 

It was a short, shallow remark, and they both knew it. Megatron gritted his dente at how feeble his processor had become, whilst Soundwave radiated sympathetic concern. Quietly, in the multifaceted harmonics of his own voice, he said, “Suggest command meeting when you are recovered, my Lord.”

“Tomorrow.”

Soundwave hesitated before nodding, and it was more to appease his Lord now than actual agreement. He sent a note to Starscream , and declined to answer the immediate questions about Megatron’s condition. His recommendation that the Seeker _not_ come to ‘offer his support and comfort’ was far more pointed.

He started forward when the larger mech rocked, an aborted move, and then slowly pushing himself upright with a shudder. Megatron kept his helm down, optics on the floor, and a hand braced against the wall. Soundwave hovered close enough to brace him should he stagger but did not touch him, and was encouraged when the dizziness seemed to pass without more retching. The big mech straightened slowly, fixing weary optics on his Third’s screen.

“Request permission to stay.”

A flash of a smile, there and gone at the corner of Megatron’s mouth, and then a hum of assent. “At your own risk, Soundwave.”


	12. Drain

Megatron fluxed under Soundwave’s tireless watch, plates tightening and twitching with unrest. The slender mech droned low frequencies in an attempt to soothe his lord towards sorely needed rest, but the dreams persisted. 

****  
\----  
****

The curve of his abdominal plating was full, inescapably heavy to Optimus’s gaze. They were somewhere nondescript, alone but for the dreadful weight. Megatron felt sick and numb, immobile under the Prime’s stare –fixed wholly on the damning swell of his middle- and just watched him approach.

Optimus stopped closed to him, hands raised in near-reverence over his plates. “Megatron, this is…” When he finally looked up, his optics were overbright with shock, coronas bleached to near white. “Is it mine?”

 _No!_ Megatron wanted to snarl. It was _his._

But he was weary, defeated and, somehow, relieved. He released a long, shallow exvent, and his voice was rough when he spoke. “The timing… would suggest so.”

It was painfully obvious how Optimus smiled behind the battlemask, his expression nakedly, honestly joyful. He lay his hands on Megatron’s plating, framing the sparkling with a firm and certain touch, and it felt _so good_.

Then the hands were gone, the room darkened, and wild bright agony crashed through his body. 

Megatron dropped to his knees with a cry of shock, resting his forehelm against the edge of the berth that was suddenly there, clutching at his plating. Massive, scorching hot as his internals wrenched and pulled apart. He was lightheaded, sick to the lining of his tanks, with sharp pains lancing about his front whilst his backstrut and pelvis throbbed with a deep, crushing ache. 

It was coming. The sparkling was coming and he wasn’t ready. He’d been carrying it for so long he couldn’t imagine it outside the safe enclosure of his body.

Another contraction pulled his mesh taut. Megatron clutched at the berth with a groan, shaking with the force of the alien pain as he struggled to remain upright. He’d never known pain like this before; nor fear.

Knock Out, Breakdown, Soundwave and Starscream stood against the wall to one side, watching.

Megatron twisted, wrestling with his own body to find some tolerable position, anything that might help. He braced his elbows against the berth, clutching the back of his helm with both hamds. 

Then Optimus was _there_ , bracing his back and strong, steady hands cupping and soothing his midsection. His engine thrummed powerfully against the Decepticon commander’s back, sending vibrations down his strut and disrupting some of the ache. 

Optimus was warm and solid, and Megatron let himself be drawn back against the broad chassis. “What took you?”

“A ten day ceasefire in exchange for my presence was going to raise questions. I came as soon as I could.”

A change in the pain, lower and deeper. Megatron grasped one of the hands holding him, searching for an anchor. “I-I need…”

“What?” Optimus rumbled into his neck, folded as close to the labouring mech as he could get. His fingers squeezed Megatron’s claws, rubbed the mass of the sparkling. “What can I do?”

Megatron’s optics clamped shut, jaw taut, and he thrashed his helm like an animal trapped in the steel jaws of a trap. He cried out again, a groan morphing into a scream as his body bore down independent of his will. Pain and terror wracked his systems; wrecked his mind.

Optimus reached a hand between his thighs and cupped his open panel. Two fingers slipped easily into his valve, making a scraping motion against the lining. Megatron squirmed with a moan but the Prime held him still. 

Another contraction and Megatron arched back, the top of his helm scraping against a smokestack as his back bowed. Optimus’s hand gripped his valve until he settled, and then held up a shallow pool of energon in his palm to show the mech.

“It’s coming, see? It’s alright. You’re doing so well.”

Megatron was too far gone already to fully register the cold wave of shock that swamped his mesh. He stared at the viscous fluid, felt Optimus kiss the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and then he was being crushed from the inside again and it was too much. 

He was leaking out. Energon trickled down his thighs onto Optimus’s, soaking them both and turning the floor oily black in the dim light. The contractions crashed on and he kept bleeding, more and more, and Optimus kept praising him in murmured words he couldn’t make out. The walls were closing in, his belly was shrinking and the sparkling was just a torrent of lifeblood.

“That’s perfect, Megatron,” Optimus said, capturing one of the commander’s hands and guiding it to his valve to feel for himself. The gushes were hot and heavy, draining from his body in thick waves. “You’re doing so well. Just a little longer and it’ll be over. You’re doing _so_ well.”

****  
\----  
****

Megatron woke to another darkened room but a different pain. The aches about his pelvis, backstrut and abdominal components were milder and familiar, but his vents were howling and whining like he was being dismembered. He brought his hands to the mound of the sparkling, cradling the life inside that was solid and real and alive. 

Wide, overbright optics locked onto Soundwave, who had been knelt over the larger mech for several minutes already. His screen was lowered with concerned scrutiny, his body hunched and protective as long hands stroked and held the commander’s arms, drawing him fully out of recharge.

A blurt of static left Megatron’s vocaliser, his mind disorientated and his systems fuzzy with alarm. On impulse he pulled Soundwave atop him, legs parting to hold the lean planes of the mech’s body close to his own. His interface panel _ached_ , phantom fluids trickling hot on his thighs, and he arched into the other mech as something real to banish the sensation. Megatron tried to form some kind of explanation, an excuse for his behaviour that Soundwave might lift from his mind, and was relieved when the mech cut through his uncertainty to the distilled core of what he needed.

He felt Soundwave’s spike emerge against his panel, a passive presence as the mech waited above him, still stroking in platonic assurance that he was _here_ and _safe_. Megatron snapped back his cover and guided the spy into him with a shuddery exhale, relief blossoming from his core.

No nightmare birth. No critical haemorrhaging. No Optimus Prime. Only his loyal Third and friend erasing the horrific sensations from his valve with slow, sliding thrusts and warm charge. The sparkling was whole and healthy between their frames, not yet large enough to be a hindrance to such couplings.

Megatron drew his knees up, framing Soundwave’s narrow body with his legs and sweeping hands. He shuttered his optics, saw the same mech against the wall watching the sparkling come out as liquid. Jerked and brought himself up on his elbows, grateful that the grinding rhythm didn’t falter. He cupped the crown-like protrusions of his Third’s helm in one hand and touched his forehelm to the dark screen of his face. 

Slim fingers braced against the commander’s thighs and Soundwave snapped his hips once, twice, and nudged Megatron into a muted overload on the third. It wasn’t ecstasy but it was complete, chasing the last of the sensor ghosts from his systems. 

Soundwave held himself still then, not chasing his own overloard but watching Megatron come down from his. Monitoring for his ventilations evening out; his core temperature dropping back towards normal ranges; and that razor-wire thread of something _stricken_ gradually vanish from his optics. 

The larger mech lay exhausted, his fuel gauges steadily approaching the red. Soundwave withdrew gently to kneel at Megatron’s hip, producing a cube of fuel from subspace.

Megatron took it numbly, manually closing his panel with his other hand. The touch reassured him that there was only a slick of lubricant there; not a torrent of energon. He dragged his stare from the ceiling to meet Soundwave’s screen, swallowing nothing loudly.

When Megatron opened his mouth to speak, Soundwave straightened on the berth. Despite the informality of the setting, his pose was stoic and regal. “Refuel, my Lord.”

Megatron shifted to sit up, and stopped at a gentle touch on his gauntlet. 

Soundwave twitched his helm in the negative, then nodded to the fuel. “Rest, my Lord.” A moment of silence, of hesitation, and then the hand on Megatron’s gauntlet slid to rest atop the sparkling. “There is still tomorrow.”


	13. Subtefuge

Despite the vicious purging that had worn at the Commander like some wickedly effective torture, the sparkling had grown into an undeniable mound. It could no longer be disguised by careful posture or lighting. Megatron was disquieted by the suddenly altered view of his abdominals, astonished that it had grown so much after two days of almost no fuel intake.

Breakdown had explained that the sparkling’s growth had been minimal, and that the mound was actually a result of the swelling across his mesh dissipating. His dimensions had returned to normal, more or less, with the distinct exception of his gestation chamber. Thus, the distortion caused by the sparkling’s mass seemed more pronounced.

Megatron’s opinion on the change in his profile was mixed. He was glad of the evidence of the sparkling’s health and growth. He was, however, painfully aware that his time on the frontline as a fighter was now over for the foreseeable future. At least if they wished to maintain the veil of secrecy. 

The Decepticon commander had instigated the movement and fought alongside his comrades in an intensely personal way. The logistics of a large army had necessitated more leadership from a desk and through comm. channels, but he had still been in the thick of it for every major engagement. 

Today he looked as far from combat-ready as he felt. His optics were pale, his miner’s-hunch exaggerated and a tremble passed through his mesh every few minutes, but the communication from the Autobots had been left unanswered for too long to rest as the medics advised.

It had been Soundwave’s recommendation that they hold the command meeting to discuss the Prime’s offer in the specialist room of the Medbay. With the 3iC having accompanied Megatron after he’d left his quarters for the first time since the purging began, Starscream had been the only one absent. Though Knock Out and Breakdown were not usually privy to such high-ranking discussions, that the secret carriage was of central importance necessitated their presence. Once Starscream arrived, everyone whom knew of the sparkling’s other progenitor was present and had listened to his recorded message.

“Protocol: face-to-face meeting,” Soundwave intoned, bringing the problem straight to the fore as soon as the Prime’s voice fell silent. His screen, now dark, turned to Megatron.

The large mech was leaning back against the berth as subtly as possible, holding the edge of the mesh. Despite having taken two full energon rations, he felt drained. Despite Soundwave’s best efforts, the graphic fluxes had continued and denied him any real defrag – undoubtedly due to the problem that was now hanging over them all. Hopefully dealing with the issue of Prime and the negotiations would take the edge off the exhaustion. 

Megatron nodded to Soundwave’s assessment, raising his chin. “That is what Prime will expect. If the terms are agreed, the chemicals would be delivered as soon as we receive confirmation that our forces have left Telios.”

Starscream folded his arms across his chassis and shrugged one shoulder, his wings shifting. “The chemicals they’ve specified are useless unless we did decide to build a warhead. As we’re not, we can afford to trade them.”

“What about the cover story?” Knock Out asked, glancing between every mech with the exception of Breakdown. The frontliner remained tucked just behind the senior medic’s shoulder, in what seemed to be his default position. “Raiding an obstetric wing under the guise of chemical warfare and then returning the chemicals is bound to raise suspicions.”

“Suspicions may already be present,” Soundwave intoned, not needing to spell out that they could be walking into a trap. They received very few opportunities to recover troops, however, and could not ignore this one. Particularly given how adamant Megatron was that his carriage have no bearing on the Decepticon army; its forces _or_ its tactics. 

Megatron’s rumbled agreement, optics narrowing. “Our demands will need to be more than just our trapped forces. If they are unreasonably high, the Autobots are more likely to believe that we value the weapons-grade materials. Then it is down to how desperate they are to avoid such an assault, and what they will offer, as to how we will proceed. Either way, we win.”

“Dependent,” Soundwave began, tilting his screen towards their commander’s distorted frame, “on maintaining subterfuge.”

Knock Out shook his head before anything about physical manhandling could be asked, addressing himself firmly to Megatron. “The sparkling has grown well beyond the point of compression back to specs, my Lord. It barely held together on Iatros. Attempting it now would be harmful and potentially dangerous to you both. If you are going to meet Optimus Prime in person, you’ll need some other method of concealment.”

There was a short silence, finally punctuated by Starscream’s single step forward. The Seeker cocked his head at an exaggerated angle, gesturing artfully across Megatron’s chassis. “A cloak would be the simplest, most elegant solution. Affixed off the pauldron, drawn across the chassis.”

Knock Out made a thoughtful sound, which only soured Megatron’s already withering expression. “Such a ludicrous trapping would better befit you, Starscream,” he snapped. “It would be obvious that I was concealing something.”

Utterly ignoring the barb, Starscream went on, “We could fashion some new plating. Something to sit over the top.”

The senior medic was quick to dismiss the suggestion. “It’d need to be disguised as part of a larger rebuild, and we haven’t got enough time to manufacture and affix armour like that.” Knock Out crossed behind Starscream to view the commander in profile. “A holoprojector is another option, though fashioning one that small in such a short space of time… If it flickered, it would only draw more attention.”

“How much does it show, really?” Starscream drew his hands behind his back, beginning a slow pace with which to inspect the Commander on all sides. His footsteps were predator-light. “I mean, to the untrained, uninformed eye. If we could arrange for this meeting to be between the faction leaders only, there would be no opportunity for the kind of intelligent scrutiny that might stumble upon our Lord’s condition.”

“You’re proposing that we rely solely on Prime’s obliviousness?” Knock Out said, and his cultured accent saved the remark from sounding like a scoff.

Starscream came to stand alongside Soundwave, wings canted high in authoritative confidence. He continued to speak as though the carrying mech at the centre of this discussion were absent. “That, and believability. It’s not exactly the first conclusion he would leap to if he notices something… different.”

“Not going would rouse suspicion and invite speculation,” Knock Out affirmed, his mouth slanted with distaste. “Obvious coverings, even moreso. Our Lord will just have to be careful.”

A natural silence fell across the room, weighted with frustration at the despairing lack of viable options. Megatron ground his dente as the cramps he was now almost constantly plagued with became more aggressive, upsetting the tenuous amount of concentration he’d been able to muster. He took in the assembled mechs, all with their optics directed away in thought, and decided to Pit with image. Gripping the berth frame, he eased himself back up so that he could curl in on his griping internals with his forearms on his knees.

Breakdown cleared his vocaliser as he stepped front and centre, awkwardly summoning the group’s attention. Usually he was completely ignored in a room, especially by Megatron himself, but since stepping into the role of obstetric specialist, the frontliner had found that his opinions carried more weight. Even now Starscream still sneered at him, but the three other mechs turned their optics to him. 

“There’s more than just appearance to think about now, Lord Megatron,” he said with obvious reluctance, directing himself wholly to his patient. “Being in proximity to Optimus Prime is likely to have an effect on you from now until the end of the carriage.”

Starscream’s reaction was immediate – he seethed forward, optics flashing. “If you’re suggesting what I think you are…. Explain yourself this instant, Breakdown.”

Knock Out caught Starscream’s arm before he could get far, the quick touch enough to keep the Seeker back. “Steady, Commander. Unlike us, Breakdown has been up to his helmcase in sparkling and gestation datafiles.”

Breakdown had gone silent at the explosion, his hands clenched into nervous fists at his sides as he waited. He briefly locked optics with the red medic, quirking his brows to convey his thanks, and then forced himself to look to Lord Megatron. This was information he’d been extremely reluctant to give to the carrier, and he’d been seriously considering handing it over on a datapad to avoid exactly this confrontation. However, it had just become pertinent to bring it up now.

“Please continue, Breakdown,” Knock Out said, confirming his assistant’s suspicion that it wasn’t just Megatron who ought to hear this, but the whole of the command trine.

And effectively nominating Breakdown to deliver the news, too.

“Uh, right. Well, as we all know, this way of making new mechs has never been the go-to path. When it has been used, it’s typically been between bonded couples, trines and within stable cohorts. But, clearly, spark bonds aren’t necessary to conceive, though spark energy is nevertheless a big part of conception.”

“Get to the point,” Megatron rumbled softly, though his voice did not need volume to be powerful.

“What I mean is, the sparkling will respond to the sire’s spark energy. It’s about bonding and familial ties, but there’s a physical side to it. The research gets a little sketchy since getting the data is next to impossible, but there’s a lot to suggest that donations of transfluid from the sire are used to supplement compensation for the compositional drain, and that it’s an active component of the gestation protocols.”

It was a horrendous thing to suggest – that their commander should desire the Autobot leader in such a basic, needful way. There was a hint that these urges would be overwhelming, written into core carrier coding and thus impossible to exorcise. Acting on them was tantamount to treachery, and even implying that Megatron might was itself treasonous.

Megatron dropped down from the berth, his large pedes landing loudly on the decking and effectively erasing whatever Starscream had had his mouth open to say. Soundwave held himself stiff near the wall, his reaction to the news unreadable, and both medics looked as though they’d rather be anywhere else.

The commander did not rage or snap, however. His optics, the crystals dark and matte where there was usually a fiery gloss, were not leveled upon any of the assembled mechs. Instead, his focus seemed to be directed inwards.

Sensing that someone ought to step in before Megatron worked through his exhaustive reverie and became _upset_ as they were anticipating, Starscream knitted his fingers together. “Master?”

“A comm. line,” Megatron replied, so immediately that the Seeker actually jumped. The Decepticon commander straightened, his hands closing into fists at his sides. “This has gone too far to risk discovery with an unnecessary meeting. Have the Nemesis moved to one of our colonies. If we appear occupied, then a long-range communication will not arouse suspicion.”

Starscream hesitated a moment, and then nodded his agreement. Certainly he wasn’t going to speculate as to how much Breakdown’s little contribution had impacted on his leader’s decision. 

Not in front of Megatron, at least.

“It’ll have to be visual,” the second-in-command said, glancing to Soundwave for confirmation.

Megatron spoke before the angular mech could respond. “Agreed. Soundwave, inform the Autobots that I will be in contact later this cycle.”

Knock Out slid his hands onto his hips. “I can make some cosmetic modifications to make you appear as indomintable as ever, Lord Megatron. Adjust your optical crystals to normal brightness, and flush your mesh with a mild stimulant to make you look a little more… invigorated.”

It was true: Megatron looked exactly like a mech who’d spent 36 hours purging violently and not taken any time to recover from it. The former gladiator was not a vain mech, but even he could appreciate that he appeared far from the powerful visage he wished to present. He nodded curtly to the doctor’s suggestion, and found Breakdown automatically motioning him out of the specially-tailored room into the general purpose Medbay, and Knock Out’s equipment.

As Breakdown escorted Megatron out into the primary Medbay, Knock Out cast Starscream an archly significant look that was reflected right back at him. That had gone better than expected. So much so that an impending sense of doom had descended in the space where violence and shouting might have been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't a drabble series any more, I fear... Thank you so much for those of you taking the time to leave your thoughts! And thank you to everyone who has been reading. I'm really glad that someone other than me is enjoying this wholly self-indulgent mpreg saga. ^^


	14. Reassessing

The telecommunication with Optimus had been an even greater success than Megatron had dared to hope for. 

In addition to regaining their pinned forces and ridding the Nemesis of a stock of volatile and useless chemicals, he’d also bullied the Prime into returning the whole outpost on Telios on the proviso that it be used for transportation of wounded and supplies, and not as an offensive staging ground. It was a bordering moon on Autobot territory – and it had been easily bartered back. Megatron had scrutinized the playback for any evidence of his condition, and was satisfied that his growled threats to disintegrate entire continents with bioweapons had been convincing.

Shockwave had sent a brief communication of his thanks for Telios, and Starscream had publically remarked that he’d waged a vicious verbal assault with remarkable success despite being in a truly sorry state at the time. The barb was expected; as had been the shattering backhand the Seeker had received in full view of the bridge crew.

It was as important for Megatron to keep up appearances to his own army as it was the enemy.

Starscream’s comment touched on a valid point: Megatron’s style of leadership would need to change for him to remain an effective leader in the coming months. Starscream was more than capable of leading his generals and commanders on the ground in his stead. In turn, the Commander could take on some of the day-to-day running of the army that fell within his second’s remit. 

Closer familiarity with the numbers and statistics that represented soldiers, energon, weapons, ammunition and supplies would inevitably lead to more strategically-sound tactical decisions. He would make his army stronger and push their advances by closing holes in his plans, and meet the logistical challenges as effectively as he would a frontliner on the battlefield.

Or so Megatron told himself when he was feeling stifled commanding a desk.

He worked from his office more than the bridge, now, finding it easier to concentrate without the multiple screens and dozen Vehicons in the recessed pit. It also took him away from staring optics, which Megatron felt crawling across his plating whenever he was out of the confines of the office or his quarters.

It was the first time that stares had bothered him. Over the years he had been gazed upon by millions of admiring optics; in rage, excitement or plain awe at his commanding physical process and lethal skill in combat. Now, optics were drawn to him for reasons has was unused to. Fixations not associated with power or death; but nurturing and life. Soft things, and _soft_ was synonymous with _weakness_ in his mind.

Carrying certainly didn’t _feel_ soft, however. It felt like battle. The other, underlying reason that Megatron spent so much time working in seclusion was that it was exhausting to maintain a constant façade of indomitable calm and secure comfort. Cramps assaulted him more often than not, and stray charge skittering across his systems left him with processor-aches, optical distortions, stinging mesh and intermittent trembling. 

He’d stopped the injections to manage the pains since Breakdown had gently cautioned him that there was some research to suggest that overusing the numbing agents could lead to complications in labour. Now, Megatron conducted much of his paperwork leaning heavily over the desk, rolling his weight side-to-side across his pedes.

The door chimed, and Megatron automatically straightened before remembering who it was. His biweekly checkups with Breakdown now largely took place away from the Medbay. There was no need for the Commander to make the trip when the assistant medic could carry what little he needed, and the Decepticon army commanded so much of its chief’s time and attention.

Megatron bid the mech entry via a glyph and finished the report he’d been working on. He’d been working on the same sentence for far longer than ought to have been required, and he met Breakdown’s optics without any trace of his usual frustration at work interrupted. Rather he welcomed the break and, to some small degree, Breakdown’s presence. It had been awkward before, but since Breakdown had asserted himself to Starscream on Megatron’s behalf, both mechs had fallen into a pattern that was –if not easy- certainly as comfortable as could be expected. 

Megatron trusted Breakdown’s growing knowledge and capability, and furthermore trusted the mech in a way he never quite could with the senior medic. Knock Out had been a Towerling, and there was still a strong air of the self-serving about the mech that Megatron distrusted. He welcomed it as a Decepticon trait, but he was also certain to make sure that Knock Out never questioned his place. By contrast, Breakdown was a labour mech with no real ambition but to fight, live and serve well.

For Breakdown’s part, Megatron relied on him as the only self-made obstetric specialist onboard the Nemesis. The Commander spoke his mind, did not appreciate coddling, and was the perfect patient with regards to obeying instructions in his carriage for the sparkling’s welfare. Though he was lightyears away from feeling on _friendly_ terms with his Lord, Breakdown at least no longer feared that he would be found a disappointment and punished accordingly.

He stepped into the office and lingered by the door until Megatron nodded for him to approach. Settling into routine, he lay the small medical case on the far corner of the desk and unclipped the clasps. From inside, he withdrew a portable monitoring pad and diagnostic cable.

“If I may, Lord Megatron?”

The larger mech grunted an affirmative, setting the datapad aside and straightening with a crackle of stiff hydraulics. Breakdown grimaced at the sound, but plugged the cable into the side port that was exposed for him without comment.

“It’ll take a few minutes to compile the results,” the shorter mech said, as he always did. He watched Megatron nod in acknowledgement, saw the creased lines around his optics twitch before he rocked his weight forward over the desk again. “Not getting any better?”

It was a deeply ingrained habit for the commander not to vocalise pain and discomfort. He was prompt for scheduled maintenance, and quick to notify Knock Out if there was some misalignment or injury that was detrimental to his combat abilities. Before he’d become a military commander, Megatron had honed himself for swift and devastating violence, and maintained the weapon of his body as effectively as he did his fusion cannon. 

He dealt with his damage without complaint, however. Where Starscream demanded an audience for every physical trauma suffered, Megatron had once carried in half of his own dismembered arm without remark. 

It was a conscious effort to volunteer information about twinges and aches, but it had been bullied into him that it was important to do so. For the sparkling, which was presently more valuable than his pride. 

Megatron did not look at Breakdown when he nodded. “They’re becoming more frequent.”

Breakdown hummed to himself, expecting as much from what he’d observed. He bit his glossa for a moment, summoning his will with clasping hands, then offered, “There’s a massage therapy I could try, my Lord.”

Surprise registered on Megatron’s features, and it took a moment for him to set aside his natural scepticism that he was being obliquely patronised. The Commander was on the verge of declining the suggestion, but his stoicism had been suffering greatly over the previous few weeks. And he had come to trust the smaller mech in this capacity.

“Proceed.”

Breakdown had paused his ventilations whilst he waited, and now exhaled noisily. He immediately moved behind the desk and cast a critical optic over the towering frame, resolving to the task.

Megatron’s was tall and broad, and there was no way that Breakdown would reach as high as his shoulders unless the bigger mech knelt. As the cramps were localised, however, he faced no logistical issues, and traced his thumbs across and down the sweeping plates that framed the inward curve of the mech’s backstrut above his pelvis. Finding the correct point, he arranged his hands to slide his thumbs under the pitted armour and pressed against the hot mesh underneath. 

As the pressure on the two small points increased, beginning to move in circular motions, Megatron felt the backs of his knees turn weak. He lay his hands flat against the top of the desk, bracing his weight, and groaned through his vents before he could catch himself. The cramps vanished as if a switch had been hit, a hot tingle spreading out in their place.

Unseen, Breakdown smiled to himself and shifted his hands a little lower. “Special Ops use points like this to disable. Tell me if I hurt you. I’ve only had Knock Out to practice what I’ve been reading on, and he’s a totally different frametype. It should help to ease out the tension, and override the spasms.” He pressed a little harder, driving his thumbs in deep. “Is the pressure alright?”

“S’good,” Megatron murmured, and Primus strike him down if he didn’t _mumble_. His chin drifted down towards his chest, optics shuttering as the taut hydraulics and tension cables in his back _finally_ began to relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comm. discussion between the faction leaders will be coming out in full in a future chapter...


	15. Support

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a really bad week and wrote to cheer myself up. So have a drabble of smut-free drivel.

Megatron found himself with company most evenings. A few months ago, he would have been bothered by the constant attention. He enjoyed a certain amount of solitude each day, and had never taken well to an officer knocking at his door without good reason outside of the main duty shift. Now, however, he found that he appreciated the company.

Particularly a Soundwave and Starscream were both bribing him for his time.

His Air Commander had ordered Breakdown to properly instruct him when he’d heard via Knock Out about the massages. Starscream did not stop at rubbing him strutless, however: he _preened_ him with a detailing kit once the carrier was suitably relaxed. Under such skilled hands, Megatron found that he didn’t much mind being lectured on Starscream’s latest proposals; or that he was being gently manipulated into agreeing to projects where he would ordinarily have made his commander fight for his way.

Soundwave was significantly quieter company, with or without Laserbeak in tow. They would sit together and refuel, reminisce about the old days or reading quietly, and lean against each other with contentedly mingling fields. The 3iC tended not to talk work unless necessary, keeping a firm divide in place between their professional and private interactions.

Sometimes there was interfacing, but not always. Neither mech expected it from him, and left Megatron to initiate if he were inclined. He supposed that, just as carrier coding was gearing him to seek the support and safety of companionship, they were enjoying him as a carrier. More than once Megatron had observed that they were basking against him, touching and staring at the fertile swell of his middle.

They were not a trine, however. Not yet, at least. And Megatron was not overly concerned about the dynamics of their liaisons – he had more important things to worry about.

Like the fact that a number of his crew had gone _insane_.

Megatron stared at the six large crates stacked neatly against the wall outside his quarters, unsure if he was feeling nausea or rage. At his side having walked with him down from the bridge, Starscream fidgeted his weight and twisted his claws together. He knew he shouldn’t be staring at his Lord’s expression, and would likely be inciting his wrath to keep doing so, but it was near impossible to look away.

“What,” Megatron finally rasped, cutting himself off with narrowed optics. His jaw worked spasmodically for a moment, and he gestured to the crates. “What is the meaning of this?”

Starscream tapped the tips of his index fingers together, looking between the crates and the hulking carrier should Megatron go on. At the impatient growl, he stepped neatly into the centre of the corridor and nodded to the… offerings.

“Well, my Lord, I believe that the crates were brought in because of the disruption caused by the sheer number of cushions left at your door.”

The sound of Megatron grinding his dente was loud, and Starscream cringed back. Embarrassment, he’d learned, led alarmingly quickly to fury in the gladiator’s psyche. And approximately fifty metal-mesh cushions of varying shapes and sizes left in the public hallway outside his living space was bound to illicit that emotion.

Genuine as the intentions behind the cushions were.

Megatron crossed the hallway in two strides and tore out two plush black cushions from the top of a container, holding them under Starscream’s faceplate as if they were damning evidence. “Why are there any cushions at all?” 

Onlining his optics again following that particularly loud snarl, Starscream picked a dislodged cushion up from the deckplates and plucked at it with his fingers. He arched a brow, wings edging back up cautiously. 

“I believe that since the datafiles recovered from Iatros were added to the Nemesis computer, some of the Eradicons have perhaps been reading,” he replied, pitching his voice to make it sound like a guess. 

In actual fact, he’d overheard more than one conversation between Eradicons about the current state of their leader and how they might best ensure his safety in the midst of the civil war. And loudly remarked that enduring the difficulties of carrying were of more immediate medical concern. Hence the pillows, as recommended by the ‘Anticipating Carriers’ text that had found its way into the ship’s database.

Soundwave had been aware of the project since its inception, and confirmed with Knock Out and Breakdown that the addition of soft furnishings to their Lord’s life would be highly beneficial to his general welfare. Once they got past the initial indignation, of course.

Megatron leaned forward over his subordinate, simultaneously looming, physically entering the Seeker’s field and getting close enough to look him straight in the optic. He sensed a plot. A scheme. It was the only tolerable explanation for the Eradicons making him enough cushions to bury himself in.

“This,” he hissed between gritted dente, shaking the cushions beneath Starscream’s pointed chin, “is an insult. A waste of time and materials, and have no place on a Decepticon warship.”

“Forgive me, Lord Megatron, but you argued the same about the obstetric suit and the bath, and both have been beneficial to you,” Starscream replied, softer now. He watched the larger mech’s gaze shift sideways, felt a wave of stress-heated air wash against him as the Commander ex-vented.

He risked laying a hand on one massive gauntlet. “The crew is supportive of you beyond Decepticon loyalty and military obedience,” he went on. “This is a gesture that you can make use of, and that will be necessary for the sparkling when it comes. Accept it.”

The gladiator shifted out of his touch, armour shifting in a bristle that would not have been noticeable without the leftover swelling of his mesh. He eyed the crates again, his temper subsiding enough that there wasn’t much heat left in the glower. “It is far, far too much.”

Starscream nodded with a smile, wings lifting back high and straight now that the danger had passed. He patted the cushion in his hands. “Oh, I’m sure a few dozen can disappear into quarters. Take a crate for now, my Lord. Better, two. I’ll deal with the rest.”


	16. Autobots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A cutaway chapter as I accidentally fall into Plot. So much for a drabble series...

They were watching the video for the third time at Jazz’s insistence and Red Alert’s nod, gathered about the conference table in the Ark’s War Room. Prowl stood alongside the screen, though he was now watching Jazz more than the oversized visage of the Decepticon Commander. Only Megatron had been recorded, but Optimus Prime’s voice was perfectly audible.

_“What would it take for you to surrender these chemicals? The others have secondary uses in medicine and manufacturing, but these can only be used for destruction.” To his credit, there was nothing like imploring in Optimus’s voice. Only a blunt statement of the facts._

_“I want Telios. All of it.”_

Around the table, the mechs weren’t sat in their habitual chairs. Jazz and Red Alert were closest to the screen, their scrutiny absolute and their systems quiet in thought. Ironhide fidgeted next to Ratchet who had been working from a datapad since the second replay, remotely adjusting equipment in the Medbay. Optimus sat hunched forward, hands folded together atop the conference table and optics directed downwards above the solid prow of his mask.

Since they’d last seen each other off of a battlefield, their world had died, entire colonies had been wiped out of existence, and the death toll was into the millions. There were better things he could think of doing with his morning than watching Megatron on loop. He was keen to hear the point of this.

 _“That is a very high price for a dozen canisters.”_

_“But a small one to at least delay a new stage in the war.”_

_“It is within Autobot territory.”_

Megatron’s smile didn’t expose his dente, emanating a patronizing smugness that continued to rankle Ironhide. _“Then it should be easy for you to keep an eye on it.”_

A pause, then the Prime’s rumbled: _“Why?”_

The Decepticon Commander inhaled through his vents, the framing curves of his armour shifting back and exposing more of the Nemesis bridge behind him. _“As a supply route. Telios is only just within your current borders, and passage through it would allow us to avoid the radiation from the nebula. My soldiers need energon, Prime, like everyone else, and my injured relocated. Prisoners of war may also be traded here.”_

_“That is… almost generous of you.”_

Megatron looked away at the remark, dismissive. When he spoke again, there was a steely note of finality in his voice. _“What is left of the facility is to remain intact whilst you clear out your forces, Prime, or the damage will be like-for-like.”_

“I will make my orders clear.”

The screen went dark and Prowl turned to regard the assembled mechs, hands moving to fold behind him. Almost immediately, Jazz straightened from where he’d been watching with his elbows on his knees. 

“Can we see it one more time, Prowl?”

Ratchet sat back with a huff, but it was Ironhide who spoke. “This is a waste of time. What’s the point of watching it over an’ over?”

“It could be that they returned the chemicals so readily because of a containment failure, or the loss of whoever was in charge of the lab,” Ratchet said, looking to Prowl and purposefully not thinking of the mountain of work waiting (and doubtless continuing to accumulate) for him whilst he sat here.

“Is it as all possible that this was all a plot to get Telios back?” Optimus asked.

Prowl shook his head. “We’ve _dissected_ that moon, and the entire system. I’ve analysed the tactical significance and weighed them against the potential number of warheads that could have been constructed, and in every configuration Telios pales.”

Ironhide groaned, thick with frustrated irritation, and rolled his optics towards the ceiling. “We’ve been over all this already.”

“But not looking at Megatron,” Jazz broke in, raising his voice to cut above the din. “We’ve all said there was something ‘off’ about this deal from the go, but so far we’ve been focusing on the tactics behind what he’s saying. We haven’t studied him in this transmission beyond what he’s saying.”  


Jazz felt the weight behind Optimus’s querying gaze upon him though the Prime didn’t speak, challenging without undermining him in front of everyone. The Spec Ops agent appreciated the gesture. “I wasn’t sure I was really seeing it before, but now I know it’s there.”

“What’s there?” Ironhide growled, his hands curling into fists in his lap.

The smaller mech ignored the frontliner, spinning in his seat to face Prowl and the screen. “Just play it again and I’ll show you. From ‘to introduce biochemical weaponry’”

_“You must know as well as I that to introduce biochemical weaponry into this conflict will be to escalate the war into an unprecedented degree of death and destruction.”_

_“And perhaps end it sooner, thus preserving life.”_

_“You will not bomb the Autobots into surrender.”_

_“No, but perhaps I can dissolve you.”_

“Pause it,” Jazz said as he jerked out of his chair, pointing at the screen. He traced a finger along the outer edge of the Decepticon’s left optic. “There. See that?”

Ratchet set the datapad down with a sharp inhalation. “Primus, he’s right. How did you even notice that?”

Jazz folded his arms, looking pleased. “It’s thin, really good work, but caps are notorious for distortions on recordings. Face-to-face they’re perfect, absolutely seamless, but with screen glare they reflect just that bit wrong on the edges, and the effect’s enhanced on a monitor like this.”

“What?" Ironhide snapped, somehow seeming even more irritated than before. "I don’t see anything.”

Optimus rose and approached the screen as Prowl began clicking through individual frames, moving back and forth until he found the one that most clearly showed the thin orange line at the outermost edge of Megatron’s optic.

“Megatron’s wearing red caps to make his optics look normal,” Ratchet said, interlacing his fingers and tapping his thumbs together. “My best guess is that they’re bleached out underneath, suggestive of extreme exhaustion, malnutrition or illness.”

“We’ve not seen any indications of the Nemesis operating at anything less than peak efficiency,” Prowl supplied. “And Megatron’s not been seen in battle since Iatros.”

Returning to his seat, Optimus hummed a deep, thoughtful note. “The Marauder arrived at Telios nine hours ago and handed over the canisters. So far as we know, the Nemesis is still out in deep space.”

Ironhide grunted, finally settling. His hands were interlaced on the table, thumbs tapping against one another. “Megatron’s staying away from any direct contact with Autobot forces. Usually he’s leading the charge on _some_ front.”

Red Alert held up a hand without looking away from his datapad, speaking straight into the pause his signal garnered. “I’ve been running a comparative analysis on his mesh pigmentation, which can only have a maximum of 72% accuracy because of the lighting conditions of the Nemesis and the likelihood of digital manipulation in transmission, but there’s a notable discrepancy in this recording as compared to others.”

It was Jazz who asked the obvious question, shoulders slanted at a dramatic angle accentuated by the tip of his helm. “Is he sick?”

Ratchet rubbed a hand across his mouth, frowning. “I can’t say for certain, but he’s definitely operating outside of normal levels. And given his absence from frontline encounters lately, and the notable delay in this response, he has been for a while. ”

It was a significant discovery. Optimus bit the side of his glossa, consciously schooling his expression into an impassive mask.

There had been a time, before the stabilization of the still relatively new Decepticon High Command, when Megatron’s demise was seen as all that was necessary to defeat the faction. The miner-turned-gladiator-turned-revolutionary was more than the instigator of the movement – he was the driving force behind it. His charisma and presence had gathered a massive following from a swathe of castes and cultures, and his orations and writings had organized them beyond mere riots and acts of terror. He’d surrounded himself with skilled and resourceful mecha, but he himself was still the crux of the Decepticons.

Now, whilst the factor would carry on without its founder, the Decepticons would be weakened by the practical and symbolic loss to such an extent that the Autobots could theoretically end the war in a matter of years, if not months. As a commander, Optimus knew that Megatron weakened would be a significant advantage if they could confirm it – better if they could explain it. 

As a mech, he didn’t know what to feel. His concern was inappropriate. If Megatron had been poisoned or contracted a virus, his interest could only be strategic. Not this twisting sense of great unease, cold and intimate.

When Optimus sat forward, it automatically drew every mech’s attention. He glanced about his staff, considering his words, before finally asking: “Starscream?”

There were myriad questions and suppositions woven into the single word, the designation alone conjuring theories of schemes, plots and outcomes no one but the Seeker himself could predict. Megatron’s mystery ailment could as likely be a result of Decepticon rank-climbing as anything else, and his tempestuous Second in Command was an obvious suspect. Even if Starscream was entirely innocent, it would be against the reports of his nature to overlook such an opportunity for advancement and manipulations to his own goals.

None of this needed to be laid out to anyone assembled in the room.

“Lethally focussed,” Prowl replied with certainty. “Nothing to suggest a coup.”

Jazz’s mouth pulled into a slanting line, concerned. “There’s not a whiff of anything directly related to Megatron out there. Not a single rumour. Whatever’s wrong with him, a lot of energy’s going in to keeping it a secret from the rest of the army.”

Silence descended as everyone individually mulled over the ramifications of such closed ranks; of Starscream’s either meticulously disguised or atypically loyalist agenda. Ratchet stated at the image of Megatron projected large on the wall; Red Alert began planning simulations on a datapad; Ironhide ground his dente and rubbed his knuckles.

“Something’s going on at Decepticon high command,” Optimus finally uttered, laying his hands flat atop the table and rising to his feet. The movement underscored the severity of his concern, and simultaneously drew the meeting to a close. He looked to Jazz and Prowl, both mechs sitting alert and waiting for orders they were already anticipating. “Assemble a reconnaissance team and find some way of getting more hard data on Megatron’s current condition, and that of the state of the forces on board the Nemesis. With the threat of biochemical warfare currently eased, this is your new mission.” 

Prowl nodded once with a “Yes, Sir,” whilst Jazz gave a little salute. There was a grim anticipation in the slant of his mouth and the steady glow beneath his visor.


	17. Contradictions

****

The nausea was back, though it was not crippling this time. What this bought lacked in strength it made up in duration, and Breakdown had had chance over the last week to try a variety of natural remedies to ease the symptoms. Copper additives in his first fuel of the day seemed to help immensely, and afterwards Megatron could get up from his cushion-littered recharge slab without dizziness and (once) losing consciousness.

Though the first cube was several hours ago, now, the commander could still taste the cloying orange tang at the back of his intake. He was sipping at a cube of standard energon in his office to subdue the taste more than out of an actual need to fuel. 

Megatron straightened from where he been standing leant over his desk, braced on his hands. It was how he’d always worked, but now the localised distortions of his frame pulled and ached. The cramps that still came and went in contacting waves only grated at him further.

Mid-shift, as anticipated, the door chimed. Megatron deactivated the few sensitive screens for the appointment, and stacked the completed pads by department whilst Breakdown showed himself in.

He looked up when the footsteps were not heavy and ponderous, but sharp and precise. Megatron’s lip curled, baring the edges of his dente and his displeasure.

“Where’s Breakdown?”

The door shut behind Knock Out, who recoiled as if slapped. His expression darkened with the shade of bruised pride. “My _assistant_ ,” he began testily, “is overseeing the crew planetside.”

Megatron gritted his dente, the heavy plates across his shoulders resettling. It had slipped his mind that Breakdown, despite his new role as his personal obstetrician, was still on the general rota.

Knock Out set the portable diagnostics case on the corner of the desk, his chin high and posture respectful. “As the Chief Medic aboard this vessel, Lord Megatron, rest assured that I am more than capable of administering a systems check.”

The larger mech grunted, but drew his arm back to expose the area where the medical access port could be reached. Knock Out inclined his helm in thanks, seeming to conclude that ‘quickly and quietly’ was the best recourse whilst the carrying mech was in this mood. 

Megatron studiously ignored the medic plugging in the cable just below his armpit, appearing to return to his work whilst the scans were run and the results compiled. 

It was not doubt in Knock Out’s abilities that rankled Megatron, but the absence of the rough, straightforward familiarity that had formed the crux of his rapport with Breakdown. They had, between them, developed a degree of trust over Megatron’s personally unanticipated vulnerabilities. He did not trust Knock Out to listen quietly to his symptoms; to gently tease out more awkward details; or to suggest bold and presumptuous advice in such a quiet and unobtrusive way that the carrier couldn’t be affronted.

“Mmm.” Knock Out frowned at the readings, but did not further elaborate on the sound. 

After waiting for a full minute, watching the medic’s pinched expression from the corner of his optic, Megatron snapped Knock Out’s designation at him.

Startled, the medic jerked out of his reverie. “Ah, sorry my Lord, I was just puzzling out some of Breakdown’s notes. You’re starting to lose density in your muscle-mesh, and he’s advised _against_ any strenuous activity?”

Megatron glowered at the smaller mech. “Yes. He warned that excessive strain could endanger the sparkling’s wellbeing, as well as my own.”

“Well ordinarily, yes,” Knock Out replied, resting his hand on a now-cocked hip. “But that’s operating on the assumption that the carrier is a civilian, not a heavy war frame.”

The sudden distinction surprised Megatron, whom had assumed that carrying a sparkling was experienced in much the same way for everyone who did it. In turn, he had thought that the treatment and maintenance of those carriages were likewise similar. Breakdown and Knock Out had often emphasized the difficulties he would face from botched repair jobs, malnutrition in youth and the sheer amount of punishment his frame had endured during his life. This was the first time that his repurposed labour-frame had in itself been highlighted as an issue.

“What of it?”

There was a short pause as Knock Out scrolled through the results, then he turned the pad over and held it out for Megatron to see. The larger mech did not take it, but did scan over the downward-slanting graph and accompanying numbers on the screen 

“You’re losing mesh density because you are a tuned fighting frame, designed to prioritise ruthlessly, and you’re not exercising like you once were,” Knock Out explained, tapping the screen with one claw to direct his attention to particular figures flagged in red. “Your energy consumption has increased as the carriage progresses, and as you’re not physically exerting yourself, your body is picking up some of the materials for the sparkling out of your underused muscle mesh.”

Knock Out set the pad aside on the desk, then placed both hands on his hips. “Much as I approve of my assistant doing his best to play the safe odds and treat your health with the utmost caution, we _are_ on the flagship in the middle of a war. You did not want the sparkling to interfere with the Decepticon’s advance, and I’m afraid that that includes keeping you in reasonable fighting form.” 

A slim hand gestured to Megatron’s swollen midsection. “If you choose to take it easy during your carriage, that’s entirely your decision and one that a professional obstetrician would wholly support. But as your Chief Medic… I would advise you that maintaining a reasonable degree of fitness is going to benefit you in the later stages; and remind you that it will take along time to recover your strength and stamina enough to release yourself onto the front lines, on top of recovering from the drains of the final weeks and the birth itself.”

Megatron nodded to himself, conceding that Knock Out’s explanation made sense despite almost completely contradicting Breakdown’s recommendations. He drummed the fingers of one hand in a wave atop the desk, running left to right. 

“What would you recommend, then? More walking?” he asked, his tone halfway to a scoff. “I cannot transform anymore.”

Knock Out arched a brow, obviously suppressing a smile at the remark. Breakdown had told him when he’d had the unpleasant duty of informing their Lord that he was not only benched but grounded until the sparkling emerged. Flight was a relatively new ability for the commander, and one in which he took pride in his abilities. Losing the ability to transform into jet mode was losing another sign of power in Megatron’s mind, and it was only the temporary reason behind the need that had kept his temper in check.

Megatron needed a controlled outlet for his moods as much as his body needed physical movement. Knock Out looked the mech over from shoulder to ankle, appraising. “Have you been sparring at all?”

“No,” Megatron replied, sounding affronted by the question. Tellingly, however, his weight sank heavier through his arm into the desk. “Not since you told me I was carrying.”

Knock Out had not missed the fractional sinking in his posture. He unplugged the diagnostic line and spooled it back into the scanner, setting the equipment aside. “My Lord, as comparatively delicate as your condition may be, you’re hardly made of crystal. Your systems can withstand, and indeed would benefit from some physical strain. Within established limits, of course. I can programme those in directly so you would receive ample warning before you over-exert yourself, once I crunch the numbers with Breakdown. It would be a sliding scale throughout your carriage, but I would strongly oppose berth rest.”

The commander listened in silence, optics bright with interest at the prospect of exerting his strength. At doing something with himself other than acting as a walking incubator for the sparkling. 

Deciding that now was as good a time as any (given how well the cushions had gone over), Knock Out cleared his throat and gestured to Megatron’s hunched position over the desk. “I’d also strongly suggest getting a comfortable chair for your office, my Lord.” 

Megatron gave an irritated rumble, and Knock Out smoothly pressed on before the mech could formulate a more scathingly articulate response. “You’re spending a lot more time at your desk now. You should be sitting to work, not standing.”

“You tell me that I need to exert myself more,” Megatron said, with the deliberate slowness that made any mech’s plates bunch tight. He straightened to stand, becoming larger in the suddenly-small office. “You want that I’m losing mesh mass, and now you insist I sit at a desk? Which of your unsolicited recommendations is it, Doctor?”

Knock Out was used to be snapped and snarled at, tolerating bruised egos and ignoring yelled demands. He had never taken well to being condescended to, however. Rankled, he clenched his fists and took a bold step towards the desk.

“It’s not the standing but your appalling posture I take issue with, my Lord. Standing like that puts additional strain on the site of most activity, change and pressure – that surrounding the gestation chamber. I’m thinking of your comfort.”

Megatron turned on him with a growl. “The sparkling’s safety is your concern, not my personal comfort.”

The door chimed with a request for admission, swiftly followed by Starscream’s glyph on a shortwave comm. line. Megatron barked for him to enter, intending to force Knock Out out of the office via his Second in Command, taking the nonsense of a chair with him. 

Starscream entered without preamble, his wings high and alert. In one hand he brandished a datapad, holding it up demonstrably. “We’ve received news from…” 

He trailed off as he noticed Knock Out’s presence, then Megatron’s tight expression. Wings dipping, Starscream held the pad in front of his cockpit. “Is everything alright?”

“Nothing a chair won’t help,” Knock Out replied smartly, sensing an ally. Starscream’s interest in the sparkling had not gone unnoticed, and he knew perfectly well that it had nothing to do with a desire to encourage rumours that the bitlet was his. The Seeker had become protective – not as neurotically as Soundwave seemed to be, but enough that he could be of help in manipulating Megatron to take care of himself.

Megatron sensed what was happening, looking between both mechs with narrowing optics. He fixed a deadly glower on Knock Out. “This is your final warning…”

The medic shook his head, significantly bolstered by Starscream’s presence and attentive stare. “Comfort and safety are going to become pretty much synonymous the further your carriage progresses, my Lord. You’re already experiencing a lot of problems due to malnutrition in youth, not to mention all the internal scar tissue from innumerable repair jobs. The sparkling needs you to be as well maintained as we can get you to stand the best possible chance of survival.”

Starscream moved further into the office, his intelligent optics narrowed with concern. With a flick of the wrist, he subspaced the datapad. He spoke only to Knock Out, as if the carrier in question was not there. “Is it really that serious?”

Knock Out nodded, then had the good grace to direct his attention back to Megatron. “I’ve said over and over that we’re aiming for a safe carriage because a normal, healthy one probably isn’t going to be possible with the way your body’s been damaged. We have to reduce as many risks as we can, which means your comfort and the sparkling’s wellbeing are connected. Which means quality rest, more fuel, more supplements, moderate exercise, and a chair.”

“I see.” Starscream had folded his hands behind his back, watching the exchange with gradually rising brows. Now he took a step back towards the door, physically excusing himself. “I shall set about requisitioning a chair at once.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Megatron bit out, gripping the edge of the table when Knock Out said ‘thank you’ at the same time.

The Seeker tapped his claws together in a short sequence behind his back, looking between both mechs. Finally, his expression deadpan, he said: “This is a warship. We don’t have furniture lying around unused, and I doubt there’s many more than half a dozen chairs on board the entire ship, anyway, and none that would bear your frametype, my Lord.” 

Knock Out’s mouth twitched downwards, humming an unhappy note. “I’m afraid I need to cite this as a medical necessity.”

“You will not,” Megatron growled.

As if unhearing, Starscream gave a single deep nod. “I’ll requisition it for the next supply ship.”

The thinly held veil of control finally slipped and Megatron rolled his optics, straightening with a deadly rumble. “This is _ridiculous_.”

Knock Out was unfazed by the mech’s snarl, and his postured remained respectfully assertive when Megatron took two prowling steps towards them. “Perhaps, but necessary all the same,” he said mildly, then sighed a little. 

The medic raised a placating hand, tilting his head just-so to indicate that he was going to elaborate. “Please trust me, my Lord. I’m not advising these changes to undermine or frustrate you. My priority is the physical welfare of yourself and the sparkling you carry. As difficult as some of these things are to hear, they all serve to increase the likelihood of a safe delivery.”

Starscream’s wings hitched up just enough to convey his alarm. He stepped in closer to the medic, head low and shoulders hunched. “Is there still a chance that it might perish? I thought the sparkling was almost viable.”

Whilst it was true that the Nemesis now had the equipment to support a premature newspark, Knock Out was hoping to see the miniature life-support unit gathering dust by the time Megatron’s carriage was over. The odds of the sparkling surviving premature emergence now were minute, but it was moving further from ‘zero’ every day.

“There is always risk, and with our Lord’s protoform as it is…” Knock Out’s lips tightened in a grim, awkward line. He turned to the portable scanner on the desk and began packing away the equipment. “As I’ve said: we can’t hope for an easy carriage, only a safe one. So, a chair. And enriched energon. And longer off-cycles for recharge.”

“I shall make it a priority order,” Starscream replied with the utmost seriousness, his gaze sliding to Megatron. He met the throttled anger with a smile, then bowed his head respectively and slipped out of the office.

The equipment case clicked shut as soon as the doors had closed behind the Seeker. Knock Out took it from the desk with a backward step, giving Megatron a shallow bow so as to keep the indignant mech in his sights.

“Right then. Everything otherwise looks fine, Lord Megatron. Breakdown will be back on board later today, and I’ll be sure to send those operational parameters along as soon as I have them.” The doors opened when the sensors detected the racer’s retreating pede. He went on without giving Megatron time to speak, graciously cheerful. “If you need anything future, please just call.”

Knock Out, ever the survivor, gave a final nod before darting out of the doorway and following in the Seeker’s wake.

****


	18. Closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw 'Magic Mike XXL', so here's a quick bit of bonus porn.

****

Lying in the oil bath, Megatron’s processor drifted. There was a low-level tingle running across his mesh; pleasant whilst immersed like this. In tight armour and having one of those orns where he kept knocking into furniture, today’s hypersensitivity had been frustrating torture.

He ventilated slow and deep, optics offline and systems naturally cycling down towards recharge. He didn’t fight it.

Optimus emerged from the oil shoulders first, his head dipped with predatory intend and his hands firm around Megatron’s hips. He surfaced only long enough to look the Decepticon in the optic, his own gaze unreadable and dark above the battle mask, and then he was going down again.

Megatron’s vents huffed when he felt powerful arms moving beneath his thighs, hefting his knees over broad shoulders and forcing his body up and back. He ended up half-curled, half-balanced on the edge of the bath as Optimus stood. The base of the Prime’s erect spike was pressed against his valve, and he couldn’t recall opening his panel.

And then Optimus was _inside_ and he _didn’t care_. Legs up, knees wide and with an iron grip keeping his pelvis in one place, Megatron could only brace his arms along the edge of the bath and hang on. The angle had his ceiling nodes struck every time, and the thick stretch in his valve was like fulfilment. Optimus ploughed into him in short, sharp thrusts, never leaving him empty in a hard and fast pace. He hung his head back, gasping, and the pleasure literally became dizzying.

Optimus didn’t speak, didn’t make a sound, but Megatron found that his gasps and low groans were amplified enough for four mecha in the room.

There was no warning before Optimus pulled out and roughly twisted Megatron over, laying his chest flat over the rim. Oil sloshed over the sides when his legs were kicked apart, and Megatron growled as his left leg with lifted at the thigh and held at a right angle to his body. Optimus slammed back inside in the same instant that he grasped the back of the commander’s neck, bearing his weight down into the force of his grip and rutting without hesitation.

It had never been like this before. He’d never been so gloriously overpowered and manipulated, arranged to another’s will to be fragged in a way that was beyond satisfying. 

And it was fragging: senseless and hard, without reservation or any emotion on the spectrum of tenderness or compassion. Optimus fucked him with a confidence that he wouldn’t break, and Megatron greedily took it all.

He came with a shout, waking himself from the daydream that had left his entire sensornet buzzing. His spike and valve were exposed beneath the oil, but his hands were still draped over the edges of the bath. There was the satisfied ache of fluids spent in both, however, and Megatron took a moment in his daze to marvel at the potency of the dream. 

It was almost enough to look beyond the _subject_ of the dream. 

As if accusing, he looked down towards the soft mound of his middle and ran a hand down the curve. His expression turned pensive, and the last tingles of the overload grounded in his systems and dissipated to nothing.

He had no idea how the bath operated, let alone how to empty it. Megatron was far from prudish, but even he did not favour the thought of soaking in his own transfluids.

After stepping fully out of the bath, Megatron turned to consider its shimmering contents. Then, bracing one hand on the edge and deliberately bending so that the gestation chamber pressed against his fuel tank, he pushed two fingers into his throat.

There was a sensor at the base of his intake intended to detect unusable fuel, one of their most basic systems intended to keep damaging chemicals out of the body. He prodded it to stimulate it, then rubbed firmly to overwhelm the tiny port until he was quickly gagging.

The purge was minor compared to recent history, but enough to put a sickly sheen into the oil. Now Breakdown would have to change the contents.  
Dismissing any further thoughts about Optimus, Megatron set about towelling himself dry. His motions were fast and rough, as if he couldn’t do it quickly enough.

 

****


	19. Gently

To the disgust of Megatron’s pride, working hours spent in a chair instead of standing hunched over the desk had made an immense difference. The cramps had ease to almost nothing; his frame didn’t ache with stress-fatigue; and –combined with the cushions- he was recharging better than he had in months.

A week after the chair had been installed, he was feeling energised and more like his old self. 

Not for the first time recently, he roused from a solid defrag on his side, surrounded by cushions, and with one of Starscream’s wings angled over his helm. The Seeker was just beginning to lazily boot online, triggered by his own alert field. Megatron rested a minute just listening to the mech’s systems purr online, rubbing a hand over the tautening plates about his middle.

Starscream had arrived as arranged last night to give the carrier an exquisitely thorough massage and share a cube. He seemed to be in competition with Soundwave in giving the most strut-melting sessions – likely without the spymech’s complicity. 

Megatron didn’t care about motivations, however. His frame had turned to warm liquid beneath Starscream’s clever hands. Afterwards, he’d almost dozed off into his cube.

Now, though, it was time to get up. Starscream’s shift on the Command Deck would begin soon, and Megatron had his first sparring match to get to. How Soundwave planned to act on the guidelines provided by the medics was a mystery, but he hoped he would find at least some degree of challenge.

Megatron put one hand on the mech’s shoulder and shook. “Get up, Starscream.”

The strong wings shifted downwards in a stretch, and then Starscream gradually pushed himself up onto the heels of his hands with feline grace. His vents ‘yawned’ a long wave of warm air, and his optics dialled up their brightness as he looked down at Megatron’s recumbent form.

“Good morning to you, too,” he muttered, arching one brow. His mouth twitched and then curved into a razor-thin smile. “Cranky today, aren’t you… Are you suffering at all, Megatron? Do you need tending to?”

It was a unique skill to make condescension and sincere concern sound exactly the same. Megatron had always erred on the side of disdain when it came to interpreting Starscream, but now he was more inclined to give the benefit of the doubt. For whatever reason, Starscream was _invested_.

Still.

Megatron bared the tips of his dente, pulling aside the cushion supporting the weight of his swollen abdominal plates. “Hardly. I merely want you up and out making yourself useful in the _immediate_ future.”

He sat up with far less ease than Starscream had, shuttering his optics against the momentary wave of vertigo that came with changing his orientation. Reaching into the cabinet next to his berth, he took a cube of copper-infused energon and drained it in one long pull. The additives tasted bitter in his intake but instantly settled the fluttery feeling in his tank.

Starscream had slipped off unnoticed whilst Megatron began his morning ritual. When the big mech swung his pedes down off the berth, he stood in front with a standard ration ready in his hands. He watched the carrier take the fuel with a visceral kind of satisfaction. 

“So. Sparring today, my Lord?”

Megatron nodded and set aside the half-drunk cube, rising to his feet. “Of a sort. No doubt there’ll be numerous restrictions that Soundwave will enforce.”

Starscream eyed the cube and crossed his arms. “Good.”

Finding he had nothing to say to that remark, Megatron gave the Seeker his back and retreated to the washrack. By the time he emerged, Starscream had left.

***

The restrictions that Soundwave enforced were frustratingly prohibitive. He refused to strike back, and was nimble enough to slide and duck away from every advance that Megatron made. It was a shocking revelation as to how much of his speed and agility the command had lost, though he’d always had to confront Soundwave in peak form to match his manoeuvrability and skill.

Slashing claws that struck nothing and a mech who wouldn’t fight back turned the ‘spar’ into a dance between forms. Soundwave may as well have not been in the room. It was infuriating. 

Megatron spun away on his heel with a growl of pure frustration. He stalked away, engine rumbling darkly, before turning back on the waiting mech with all the restrained violence of a raised gun.

“What’s the point of this?” he spat, throwing his arms wide at Soundwave. “Strike back! Where’s the _challenge_?” 

Soundwave tilted his visor downwards just slightly, and somehow compensated for lacking visible brow ridges in conveying the expression as he looked at the commander’s abdomen.

“It’s nothing.” Megatron waved a dismissive hand and stepped away, crossing his arms. 

“Suggest: alternative challenge,” Soundwave offered. A moment later, he opened the covers on his recessed datacables and bid the powerful appendages to emerge. “To engage you more.”

Megatron turned to face him fully once again with interest, though he was still dubious. “Go on.”

The datacables rose like striking serpents, undulating in rhythm with the pulse of the ringed biolights. Soundwave shifted one pede forward, opening the base of his stance. “Deflection only.”

The declarative made it suddenly obvious what Soundwave meant, and Megatron hummed with a thin smile. It was a type of sparring they’d engaged in during their shared tenure in the Arena, and a skill that he’d never quite had the opportunity to master.

Megatron offlined his optics, closing the overlying shutters as well to ensure total erasure of visual input. At the same time, Soundwave splayed the three prehensile jacks at the ends of his cables and turned them rigid. When he moved them, it created a barely perceptible whistle that Megatron could track if he concentrated.

The larger mech had only ever been able to track one datacable. Two had confused his audio receptors.

Megatron raised his hands, fingers curled in readiness to grab, to show he was ready to begin.

It wasn’t what he wanted, but it was something. It would do.


	20. Lacking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will reiterate that I'm writing this utterly selfishly. Beware my self-indulgent waffle.

Though he was subjected to weekly scans and had Breakdown on-call at all hours, Megatron underwent a more comprehensive physical assessment each month. They took place in the obstetric room, not his office, and the scans took place internally whilst his systems were directly linked to the computers for monitoring.

It took half an hour for the results to be fully gathered and compiled, most of which Megatron was left alone for. He spent the time reading reports, usually, but today had found himself almost powering down despite the scanning wand positioned in his valve. System strain was an ongoing factor, now, and he found that just reclining comfortably was enough to begin cycling his systems down.

Megatron powered up fully when he heard the door hiss open, pressing a hand across his optics until the lenses recalibrated to the overhead lights. Starscream had made a comment about his suddenly heightened ‘sensitivity’ on the bridge the day before, and he’d assumed it was just a smack-inviting comment at his expense. He was coming to agree with what the Seeker had noticed, though; overbright screens and lights made his optics ache and tank curdle. 

Breakdown returned with Knock Out in tow, and both medics wore the same carefully-neutral expressions that could only be cultivated in a clinical setting. Megatron raised himself on his elbows as the red medic lay a cool hand on his hip and gently removed the wand.

Their silence was troubling, and Megatron had no patience for it. “Speak, Breakdown,” he said, staring at the frontliner unhooking his pedes from the stirrup rests.

The assistant medic looked up, and his field was immediately contrite at the thread of concern he found in Megatron’s field. “I’m sorry, Lord Megatron. We didn’t mean to, uh, unsettle you. It’s just a sensitive topic is all.”

Knock Out stood with his back to them, slender-pointed fingers skating over the console panel as he reviewed the readouts. His reflection in the screen betrayed his expression, however, further underlined by his quiet scoff. “‘We’, indeed.”

Finishing with the numbers, he turned and folded his arms across his chassis. His polish was particularly high today, and slashes of reflected light were white-bright on his armour. “My assistant is reluctant to enquire about your interfacing habits despite its medical pertinence.”

Megatron sat up at that, causing Breakdown to take a hasty step back and retreat until he was alongside the Chief Medic. Though he was far from prudish, Megatron was not one to indulge speculations into his private, personal affairs. He still found privacy precious following the communal living of impoverish Tarn and Kaon. More than that, though, was the fact that Orion Pax still dominated his recent past – raw like a wound. 

He thought of the graphic fluxes he’d been having about the Autobot Commander recently, which had become so intense that he woke overheated and aching. Soundwave would not intrude upon his sleeping mind, and he had told no one about the dreams. However, the irrational panic that it had been guessed had him gritting his dente with a snarl. 

Knock Out’s brows arched at the sound, and he shot Breakdown a sideways glance. 

Megatron swung his pedes over the side of the berth, making to stand. “Explain yourselves, now.”

Both medics held up a single hand, entreating him to stay seated.

“It’s with regards to the sparkling, I assure you,” Knock Out said, taking a step forward and approaching the berth. 

The movement made an even brighter glare sweep across the sharp angles of the racer’s chassis. Megatron narrowed his optics and looked away, feeling his tank clench. He exvented loudly, forcibly calming himself. “If it’s about the sparkling then reinforcements are not necessary, doctor. Leave me to my primary physician.”

Knock Out’s expression was stony for a moment, suppressing the flare of his affronted pride. Then, with a curled lip, he turned to Breakdown and swept his hand out. 

Breakdown had never been one to power-play, go after a promotion, or indeed say or do anything to get the attention of a senior officer. He liked a simple, straightforward life. Megatron’s eschewing of his immediate boss, whilst professionally flattering, made him deeply uneasy.

Still, he was the one and only obstetric nurse trained up out of necessity, and that was shield enough to plough on behind. He cleared his throat. “Ah, Lord Megatron. The results from the scans are within acceptable parameters. The sparkling’s in the bottom 10th percentile for size, but it’s perfectly healthy. Just, small.”

Megatron’s weight settled more on the berth and he rested his fists on his thighs. Concern for the sparkling’s wellbeing had long since began to trump pride with barely a pause. “Is its size due to malnutrition?”

Another glance at Knock Out, though this one was not returned. The senior medic suddenly seemed extremely preoccupied with reviewing the readouts from the wand. 

Breakdown tucked his hands behind his back. “Not exactly. I mean, looking at the fluid composition in the chamber, I’d say no. Your own reserves are on the low side, my Lord, but that’s an easy fix with more regular refuelling. Your systems will continue to prioritise the sparkling.”

He nodded fractionally, satisfied with the answer. Solutions that he could implement immediately were always welcomed. However, nothing that Breakdown had said seemed to connect to both medic’s anxiety when they had come in as a united front. “Then what are you so hesitant to tell me?”

The big mech’s hands reappeared at his sides, clenching and releasing. For a brief moment it looked as though he was going to raise them in a gesture of calm and/or surrender. “Sir, I don’t want to overstep my bounds.”

Megatron exvented with a grunt, his patience rapidly beginning to wear thin again. His backstrut ached from sitting like this, and his fuel tank was beginning to get the gnawing ache of hunger that was exclusively linked to the gestation chamber’s manufacturing plant. “You are my physician, Breakdown, and your sole purpose right now is my sparkling’s welfare. You _will_ tell me what I need to hear.”

Breakdown nodded sharply at the reminder of his duty, though still averted his optics as if to steel himself. Finally, with his chin tucked down towards his bulky chassis, he quietly gave his patient his professional recommendation. “Well, uh, the sire’s transfluid’s recommended in the literature. Pretty strongly.”

It was to Megatron’s benefit that he was sat on the berth. It meant that he could disguise the surprised rock backwards as resettling his weight and getting more comfortable in order to give his full attention. Not that Breakdown’s unexpected words had hit like a physical blow. It hadn’t occurred to him that the sparkling might be suffering from its sire’s absence in-vivo.

When he spoke it was calmly and cautiously, without any of the usual threat or suspicion that usually accompanied the two words. “Go on.”

The wait for a response had set Breakdown’s hydraulics taut with fight-or-flight readiness, and his gradual return to a more relaxed state was obvious in the pronounced sag across his frame. He glanced to Knock Out once more, still a little wary, and then settled into the comfortable cadence of a medic speaking to a patient.

“Transfluid’s pretty unique in terms CNA composition, and contains the whole spectrum of base elements found in our bodies,” Breakdown said, keying up a screen to detail the elements and how their uptake by the sparkling had fluctuated upwards before the rate of incline had turned shallow a month ago. “Gestation chambers constantly absorb nutrients as part of manufacturing, and regular, ah, ‘access’ to transfluid means that less is leached straight from the carrier’s systems. It’s also spark-charged from overload, which gives the chamber an energy jolt, and statistically it makes the absorption process itself three times as efficient.”

“I see.” Megatron studied the figures a moment longer, and then his attention turned to the small dot on the size graph that represented the growing life inside his frame. It was painfully, pitifully beneath the average line, and the gladiator-turned-revolutionist-turned-military leader would _not_ see his progeny stifled into inadequacy due to shortcomings in his care. 

“Can the sparkling recover in size from this… lacking?”

Neither medic had missed the shadow of concern that had dropped like a veil over the big mech’s features. “CNA donation via transfluid will help counteract some of the low numbers the sparkling’s showing. The sire’s would be optimal in terms of compatibility and efficiency of uptake. But a substitute would work almost as well.”

Megatron’s expression became taut with interest, his attention suddenly focused like a heated point on Breakdown. “Explain,” he said, dropping the word like a command engraved in iron.

Oh Primus. Breakdown sensed that he was being forced towards a corner; into medically advising his temperamental Commander to interface regularly for the sake of receiving transfluid. 

It was hardly _just,_ a rumour that Soundwave and Starscream had been spending the odd night with the carrier. As far as Breakdown was aware, though, Megatron still believed that the stays had gone unnoticed and that he was not further the topic of gossip. 

Either way, the solution was already in place. It just needed explicit medical justification and backing.

Picking his words very carefully, Breakdown pressed on with his Lord’s pride and personal privacy at the fore of his mind. “Well, the sparkling reacts to its sire’s spark energy, but the, uh, harvested materials are all much the same whoever they come from. The benefits gained from transfluid not from the sire are exactly the same. When I warned about Optimus Prime’s spark energy affecting you, I meant that carrier coding would be drawn. From a physiological viewpoint, it doesn’t matter who the transfluid comes from. The manufacturing plant will incorporate the nanites into the sparkling’s frame, and the energy discharge will temporarily increase the charge in the gestation fluid.”

Megatron’s brows were drawn down in thought, quietly absorbing information that he’d previously been ignored of. Beyond his default interest as a carrier for his sparkling’s wellbeing, it was also a great relief to hear that the sparkling would not need Optimus Prime any more than he did. Which was _not at all._

He gripped the edge of the berth again and slid slowly down onto his pedes. His mesh felt overly sensitive in the same way it had when the purging had been at its most severe. 

“Understood,” he uttered, and there was a finality in his voice that suggested that he was done with this examination for today. Whatever other results Breakdown wished to give him could be transmitted or discussed later. Right now, he had a rather peculiar conversation to have with two mechs.

A potentially enraging conversation where Starscream was concerned. This was going to do horrendous things for the Seeker’s vanity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this fic has dived into that well-worn trope. Sex has become a noble necessity. Steamy chapters on the horizon.


	21. Kin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some sticky. This was supposed to be pure smut but it ran off and did its own thing. Thank you so much again to everyone who's reading, and doubly so to those leaving their thoughts behind!

Megatron appeared to be trying to rut Soundwave through the wall when Starscream arrived. 

The lock had accepted his override code, so the Seeker had let himself in. He stopped near the threshold to admire the spectacle. Soundwave’s legs were flung wide and up over the bigger mech’s arms, his body bent almost double where he was pressed against the bulkhead. Megatron pulled him into every brutal thrust, his hips rolling with slow and staggeringly powerful intent.

Starscream took a slinking step forward, feeling his own systems booting up with a warm buzz. “I see you’ve started without me.” He pursed his lips, tilting his head to one side to observe Megatron’s spike plough and pull at Soundwave’s valve. “Isn’t that somewhat… counterproductive, my Lord?”

Megatron bared his teeth, maintaining his rhythm. His hands shifted further up Soundwave’s hips so that his thumbs pressed into the sleek waist. Soundwave’s helm tipped back against the wall with a subsonic moan.

“I am not some starving drone for you to fill,” Megatron rasped.

Starscream’s brows leapt upwards, and he leered anew. “Oh, let’s not _completely_ ruin the fantasy,” he murmured, beginning his approach.

*

It was surprising how easy it was for them all to fall in together. Megatron’s field was heady and addictive, and the two smaller mechs felt incidental to each other within in. The touches that Starscream and Soundwave exchanged were relaxed but perfunctory, guiding or adjusting as they moved. 

After Soundwave had been laid out on the berth after his first overload, Starscream had stepped up behind Megatron and slid his fingers into the kneeling mech. Megatron had reached behind and grasped his hip, half encouraging half dragging his spike inside. The groan when his valve was finally stretched almost made Starscream’s knees buckle, and he braced his hands on the carrier’s hips to remain upright.

*

On their knees with Megatron braced low on elbows and knees was the first way that they had both filled him simultaneously. Soundwave had wrapped his thighs in his tentacles, pulsing the coils in time with his long, plunging thrusts. At the head of the berth, Starscream clutched Megatron’s helm and babbled insensately as the commander took his spike into his throat.

Whilst not feeling any kind of thirst for transfluid specifically, Megatron was basking and energised by the focused attention of two powerful and aroused fields. His coding was singing with relief, and both his valve and mouth clenched and worked every time one of the spikes overloaded into him. It had been a long time since he’d felt so wanton, so abandoned to pleasure.

Starscream stroked his helm, hips jerking erratically into his mouth. “So good… ‘re so good,” he mumbled, breathy with static and popping charge.

*

There were advantages to their size differences. After the first hour, they were becoming versed in arranging themselves around each other.

Megatron was guided onto his side in the wake of a dual spike-valve overload, and Soundwave lifted one of his legs over his shoulder with two datacables. From there, and at Megatron’s encouragement, they both worked their way inside the sensitised valve that was easily spec.ed to take them combined. Starscream ended up with an arm wrapped around Soundwave, one arm braced on the berth, as his spike slid and ground against the 3iC’s.

*

Megatron’s last overload had had to be dragged out of his body, and electrical arcs were still skittering across his frame when his systems rapidly cycled offline. Exhausted and spent, the carrier was out for the night cycle, leaving Soundwave and Starscream to clean up.

Near exhausted themselves, the two smaller mechs were slow and meticulous in sweeping cleansing cloths about the berth and the Commander’s massive frame. Megatron’s chassis flexed periodically, transformation seams flaring open to let that much more hot air out from beneath his plates. His vents were wide and loud, thighs still parted and panel open from the last coupling.

Soundwave traced a cloth gently against his dark, swollen mesh to clean away the smears of lubricant and escaped transfluid. His touch was soft, as near reverent as Starscream’s own. The Seeker was working about the mech’s hands and gauntlets before moving on to his helm. He traced the severe lines now lax in sleep, running his claws down the proud jawline and scarred mouthplates.

“Given that transluid is a compositional material for the sparkling,” he began, optics downcast on his work. His voice was quiet in thoughtfulness and so as not to disturb the recharging mech. “The addition of our CNA will make it ours, too.”

“The sparkling is Lord Megatron’s,” Soundwave said, equally quiet but firm with the correction.

Starscream rolled his optics and tossed the cloth aside towards the floor. “Well of course, I know _that._ ” He crawled down the berth to sit alongside the swollen mass that had brought them all here. The Seeker contemplated it a moment, then slid his hand up from Megatron’s hip faring and onto his abdominal plates. “What I mean is that it will be a perfect Decepticon.”

Soundwave’s faceplate fixed steadily on the mech. Its blankness was in itself intimidating when combined with his steel-like field, his helm tilted in warning. They did not need to speak of what lay beneath the mask – and wouldn’t dare to discuss the topic of progenitors when Megatron was present and awake.

But it lay there as an ongoing awkwardness, a barb they kept well clear of. Of course the sparkling would be a perfect Decepticon: it would be born amongst them, grow and develop within their culture, and enjoy all the power and privilege of a creation of their Liege Lord himself. Certainly it would not suffer for being spoiled, as Megatron was a hard teacher – particularly on those closest to him.

It would not be an oddity aboard the Nemesis. The crew and the commander himself had already adapted so much. The senior command were more united than ever, as if every opposing proposal, strategy and idea were all united under the same wider goal or the sparkling’s welfare. The flagship was cohesive and proud, and it was filtering outwards into the wider army as priorities were focused amidst a fresh well of energy and hope. 

But ever in the background, known only to a few, was Orion Pax, now Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots.

Soundwave broke the silence first, rising to his pedes alongside the berth. He lay his hand near Starscream’s with a regal air, joining the Seeker in taking complete touching advantage in Megatron’s unconscious state.

“Fire is not purely the spark that ignited it,” he said. “We are kindling. The sparkling is ours as little or as much as Megatron wishes it.”

Starscream leaned sideways with a leering grin. “But the more we contribute our CNA…”

A near inaudible sigh before Soundwave nodded, conceding the point. Even if Megatron wanted to care for the sparkling exclusively when it emerged (unlikely and unfeasible as that scenario was), he would certainly be glad to be involved in this way.

“Whatever Carrier wants.”

Starscream nodded at the familiar phrase, expression softening. “Yes. Whatever Carrier wants.”


	22. Practice

Megatron mixed up the tank-settling concoction himself each night, ready to take the next morning as soon as he came out of recharge. He was tired and had been fumbling for the last hour of his duty shift already when he knocked the copper additives all over the deck.

With a weary grumble, Megatron resigned himself to leaving the sanctity of his quarters again and going to the obstetric room for more. He was perfectly capable of finding what he wanted, and didn’t think of contacting Breakdown.

It was past the transition point between duty shifts and the corridors were quiet all the way to the Medbay deck. Megatron only encountered a handful of Eradicons, all of whom nodded respectfully in passing and didn’t so much as glance below his shoulders. The sparkling had become normal at some point, though he couldn’t pinpoint when that was. After the cushions, most likely.

Megatron let himself into the obstetric ‘wing’ by the side door, bypassing the main hub of the Medbay. The entrance was actually part of the storage area, which lead out into the oil bath and medical area proper. He heard movement in the next room, and guessed it to be Breakdown from the low thrum of a frontliner engine he could just pick out. 

The big mech had his back to the door leading to the private oil bath when Megatron stepped through, and at first glance he didn’t seem to be alone. Megatron frowned at the steel-grey pedes he could see in the stirrups to one side of Breakdown’s bulky frame. He came around to see who the legs belonged to, mouth twisting in displeasure.

Any outburst about the privacy of this space deflated into surprise when he saw that the legs bent on the medical berth terminated above the pelvic array. The boxy hips were skeletal, with all outer layers of plating stripped back to reveal the base structure and a lattice of clear flexible resin that seemed to represent protoform mesh.

Inside, folded into a silver egg shape, was a sparkling.

Megatron’s vents inhaled sharply, hands closing at his sides. “What is that?”

Breakdown straightened from where he’d been hunched over the control panel mounted on the side of the berth. As the commander had been making no attempt at stealth, he’d heard Megatron’s approach from the storage room. He’d left the carrier to it, assuming an oil bath, and that he’d be summoned if wanted.

“It’s an obstetrics dummy, Lord Megatron,” he replied, stepping back from the berth so as to give a clear view. Breakdown knocked a hand against his thigh as he considered how unsettling this could seem to someone unused to such equipment. He cleared his throat and made a vague gesture towards it. “Diagrams and videoclips were only giving me so much. Medics practice on these kinds of things.”

Megatron absorbed that in silence for a moment, casting a critical optic back over the… _device_. It was unsettling in its accuracy – he’d seen bifurcated frames before in the Arena. Never one with a sparkling inside, though. 

“I see,” he said. Curious, he came around to stand on the other side of the ‘occupied’ berth. The dummy was sophisticated, and seemed to be able to move and alter all its components from the control panel. “What exactly are you practicing?”

“The basics – how the sparkling can descend from the gestation chamber into the emergence canal; how alignments change in different positions.” Breakdown’s expression shifted, the plates around his mouth tightening. “But mostly I’m going through the case studies for when things get… difficult.”

Megatron arched an optical ridge. “ _Difficult_.”

Breakdown nodded fractionally, looking down at the dummy. He ran a hand across the back of his neck, one amber optic squinting. “Honestly? Worst-case scenarios.” He released a heavy sigh and tipped his hand towards the berth. “Straightforward birth is… well, _straightforward_. But there’s just so much that can go wrong, and better I go through the variables like this than figure it out if something goes wrong on the day. All the probable outcomes are programmed in here. It’s just running simulations.”

Never one to shy from the hard, cold reality of worst case scenarios, Megatron quashed the urge to end the conversation there. It twisted something deep and hot when he thought about risks and harms towards the sparkling, but practicality and probability was not on their side for this carriage. 

The commander regarded the small form curled in the transparent gestation chamber. “Such as?”

Breakdown immediately began punching in a command line, typing as he spoke. “Like, say one of the sparkling’s shoulders gets lodged in the canal. _Really_ lodged.” 

There was a whine of pressure from the obstetric dummy. Megatron saw the frontal pubic arch lower an inch, the cords of plastic mesh tightening in a lattice across it. Then the gestation chamber rippled with a long, hard contraction that pushed the immobile mass downwards. Megatron watched the helm descend through the pelvic cavity into what would be the upper end of the valve. The sparkling remained tucked into an egg shape until its width caught against the narrower pubic arch, whereupon it elongated with the ongoing contraction. Within seconds, the sparkling was lodged with its helm and one shoulder out, and the rest of its body folded up against the breach.

Unnervingly to Megatron’s optics, Breakdown put his hand between the dummy’s thighs and palmed the sparkling’s crown.

“It’s too late to do a surgical removal unless I literally push the bitlet back up, but that’s bound to do even more harm,” Breakdown said, tapping about the relevant parts with his other hand. “The only options are to either break the sparkling’s collar faring, or crack the pelvis so that the canal can be forcibly expanded beyond the dilation point.”

Megatron’s weight shifted to one side. He continued to stare at the troubling scenario. “Neither option appeals.”

Breakdown shook his head, grim, then looked up to the carrier with a neutral expression. “It’ll be down to survival if it gets that bad, Lord Megatron. A labouring system is functioning at the absolute limits of its stress tolerances, and there’s only so long that a sparkling can be connected to that without suffering a backlash. The biggest thing this has taught me is that decisions like that have to be made quick and with conviction. It could be the difference between keeping you both alive and not.”

Silence stretched out for longer than Megatron had intended. Breakdown shuffled awkwardly and tapped at the controls, muttering to himself. They both watched the botched labour reverse itself and the sparkling return to its curled position back inside the gestation chamber.

Megatron saw a digit change on the upper corner of the control panel. Some kind of counter, likely for how many scenarios Breakdown had run. He couldn’t read the figures, but there were three of them. Once again, he felt a twisting sensation in his tank tighten and ease at the reminder of Breakdown’s vigilance. In this area of expertise, the frontliner had far surpassed Knock Out and any other medic that Megatron could think of within the Decepticon army. There was no way that the sparkling could be in safer hands. 

With the unacceptable exception of turning to the Autobots, of course.

“I trust that you’ll make the right decisions,” he finally murmured. The words did not come out with as strong a note of confidence as he’d intended. Rather they sounded like assurance, though towards himself or Breakdown, Megatron wasn’t certain.

Breakdown looked up from the berth. “Sir?”

Megatron drew his shoulders back, drawing authority and power about himself like a cloak that had slipped. “I have faith in your abilities, Breakdown. You have served me well, and I admire the lengths you have gone to in ensuring the sparkling’s health.”

The medic smiled a little, obviously hesitant to be so bold with his expression. He tucked his hands to his sides and gave a military-sharp nod. “Thank you, Sir.”

Turning towards the cupboards where the supplements would be stored, Megatron rested his hand on the edge of the berth and paused. Much as he trusted Breakdown, he would not leave everything to the medic and to chance if there was some way he could influence his fate. 

He turned back to Breakdown, facing him across the dummy. “Have you gained any insight that I can use?” 

Breakdown tilted his helm, thoughtful. His field relaxed as he sank into the familiar territory of explaining to a patient. “Well, being upright and letting gravity and the weight of the components over the chamber get involved in the contractions is highly beneficial. I’d recommend delivering on your knees, or even standing, but it’ll be down to you and what feels most comfortable at the time.”

“I don’t imagine any of it will be ‘comfortable’.”

“Right.” Breakdown tapped his index finger against the control panel. “Well, we’ll be doing our best to get your systems and the sparkling into the best position in plenty of time. There’s some manipulation we can perform externally if the sparkling isn’t positioned well for emergence, but you’re a long way off needing to worry about that for now.”

“Indeed. Not quite halfway.” At ‘manipulation’, the carrier’s gaze had tracked across to the instrument tray set on the side counter near the wall monitor. 

Breakdown saw the look and felt something between dread, panic and sympathy. The equipment looked unsettling out of context, and it was only from having practiced with the long-handled instruments that he’d naturalised them past the point of find them disturbing. Megatron, however, was faced with the very real possibility of having some of those long, foreign shapes forced into him whilst in labour.

“That tray’s for if we need to help things along manually. It looks primitive, but they’re effective in their simplicity.” He tried to sound reassuring. “From the vids I’ve watched, you won’t even notice if I have to use them.”

Megatron obviously found that _exceedingly_ hard to believe. “I shall take your word on that.”

There was a shade of humour in the comment, and Breakdown smiled despite himself. He decided to take advantage of Megatron’s good mood, broaching a topic that risked rankling the big mech. Anything that was to do with Megatron’s personal life, medically-related or not, usually tensed his plates.

“Later on, or sooner if you want, we can start going through the emergence in more detail. It’s better if you go in knowing what to expect.” He and Knock Out were only slightly more knowledgeable about what was going on with Starscream and Soundwave than anyone else on the ship. Whatever it was, it was definitely working, though. “I’ve also read that it can help having a partner to do that with who’ll be with you on the day. Anything that’ll help to keep you calm and focussed is important – the literature really stresses that.”

Megatron’s jaw flexed, but his expression remained as schooled and calm as his field. He gave a short nod, accepting the medic’s advice. “I’ll think on it. For now, I shall leave you to your… _practice_.”

Breakdown inclined his head and dutifully lowered his optics back to the dummy. He would pretend to work until the commander left. 

Megatron finally reached the cupboards and began sifting through the various silver canisters for the copper additives. Breakdown glanced up to see what he was looking for. “Ran out?” he asked, openly puzzled. He’d given the carrier enough to last a month after his last appointment.

A ripple of irritated resignation. “Spilled.”

“Ah.” Breakdown pursed his lips, returning to the dummy. “At least it tastes good.”

Megatron made a sound like a scoff, his expression one of disbelief. “Your tastes run very strange. It’s bitterer than transmission fluid.”

That caught Breakdown’s attention. Copper was used as a sweetener in confectionary-making on Cybertron, and was an easy way of making medicine more palatable for younglings. 

Abandoning the static dummy, Breakdown came to join Megatron at the cupboard and rooted around through the stock. “I read that sometimes the olfactory senses can undergo changes during carrying, and I’ve noticed that you’ve been experiencing some photosensitivity, too.” 

He found the two canisters he was looking for, and set both the copper and the second unit into the commander’s hands. “Try the magnesium with the copper in your first cube – should sweeten it up enough to cover the taste. Usually I wouldn’t advise daily intake as it builds up in pockets in the fuel systems, but in a carrying frame burning through fuel so effectively, there’s no risk of that.”

Megatron closed his hands around both canisters and set them in his subspace. He made to leave back the way he’d come, then paused; looked again to the berth, then took in the weary slope of Breakdown’s shoulders.

“Thank you,” he said, for the canisters and everything else. Words seldom heard from the commander, but weighty for their rarity.


	23. Appearances

There was an ominous silence in the command centre when Megatron stepped through the sliding double doors. The Commander came to a standstill and took in a dozen Eradicons who had paused in their work to turn and look at him. As his gaze slid across them, all hands rose to touch their insignia in salute.

Megatron disregarded them with a snort. He’d never been one to stand on daily ceremony such as this. Having worked suspended whilst his presence was announced and acknowledged delayed work and unnecessarily divided attention. This display was unusual to say the least, and seemed more an excuse to look at him.

Starscream swept towards him as he continued along towards the centre of the concourse, where Megatron customarily found himself when overseeing operations here. It afforded an unobstructed view of all the viewscreens, and allowed him to look down into the monitors in the recessed pit where the Eradicons busied themselves with the everyday tasks of running the Nemesis. 

“My Lord,” Starscream greeted, bowing low and smiling in a way that Megatron was not fond of.

The reason for the Seeker’s mood was revealed between the wide angle of his wings. In the centre of the command deck, right where Megatron usually stood, there was a chair. A big chair. 

“What,” Megatron spat, already rounding on the furnishing, “is this?”

Starscream came to stand a little behind the larger mech, watching the proceedings with the confidence of one who knew he could easily outrun and outmanoeuvre his pregnant opponent. “A place from which you can observe the might of the Decepticons in comfort, my Lord.”

Megatron’s lip curled at the glib description. He approached the monstrosity with narrowed optics, glaring and studying it in equal measure.

The chair in his office had had to be requisitioned specially as the size and weight of his frame precluded any of the furniture available already on the Nemesis. This chair appeared to have been disassembled and the gaps between its component parts bridged and filled with scrap metal: a wider seat, taller back and stouter legs that ultimately curtained around the base like molten metal. It had been sculpted into sweeping arches and pointed curves reminiscent of his own frame, and the dark metal had ben polished to a high shine in preparation for his arrival.

It looked more like a throne than a chair, Megatron realised. He turned just enough to meet Starscream’s optic, confirming the thought.

As if cued, the Seeker tucked his hands behind his back and stepped forward. “A throne for an arrogant and egotistical warlord,” he purred, his sharp optics narrowing a touch.

Not a carrying mech prone to swaying on his pedes, Megatron supplied to himself. 

Starscream’s expression turned theatrically downcast. “I’m afraid, Lord Megatron, that when seated for visual recording that you will only appear from here up,” he said, setting a hand midway up his own cockpit. “I hope you are not unduly disappointed.”

“Only in your presumptuousness,” Megatron bit back, though even he could hear that there was no real venom in his voice. 

He placed his hand on the crown of the chair, considering, and then turned to sit in it. The back was subtly curved inwards, supporting his lower strut, and the armrests were at the perfect height for bracing his elbows to shift and adjust his posture.

Starscream hovered at his side with the same thin little smile that had been haunting his faceplates for weeks. Megatron looked at him from the corner of his optic and dismissed him with a flicked of his hand. The Seeker bowed deeply, still smiling, and retreated towards where Soundwave stood half-hidden in the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little titbit to say this story is still going strong! It's just been a difficult few months so writing has fallen by the wayside. Thank you so much for reading!


	24. Nuance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tough week. Have some sorta-fluffy filler. More action and vaguely plot-ish chapters coming soon.

Soundwave was rarely ever in his quarters during the off cycle. Whilst it remained unspoken, and thus the possible implications unexplored, Megatron found the mech’s nightly presence a welcome one. It was physically comforting and reassuring, and their growing companionship seemed to be both natural and inevitable. 

Starscream still visited daily, but rarely stayed to recharge. He complained about the lack of space for his wings in the berth, or the volume of Megatron’s rattling manifolds in recharge, but that wasn’t all it was. The Seeker could not relax around the bigger mech like Soundwave could, and certainly not enough to power down on a whim. An extensive ‘facing session that left him succumbing to recharge was one thing; quiet voices and lying close in the dark was quite another.

His Third had become constant, steady and easy in a way it had never been with Orion. Megatron had wondered at one point if he was unconsciously substituting for the sparkling’s sire in his life as they were deliberately doing with transfluid. The possibility disgusted him. 

It had, he’d ultimately determined, just been the next logical step for them both since deciding to keep and maintain this new life. Soundwave had guarded Megatron against his own doubts from the beginning as much as he guarded the secrecy of the sparkling’s existence on the Nemesis. The spy’s affections towards him were less obvious, electric as their couplings were. But then neither of them were the type to talk about _feelings_.

Sated and strutless from a long hour coiled around each other on the berth, Megatron had mindlessly looped an arm around the mech’s waist and pulled him close. The washrack could wait – a sentiment that Soundwave echoed in the immediate placement of one hand over the sparkling. Always, it seemed, there was some magnetic pull that affected Soundwave and Starscream, both.

“Can you sense it?”

The question was quiet, soft as a slipped thought.

Soundwave repositioned himself in the crook of Megatron’s arm so that the crown-like protrusions about his helm wouldn’t catch on his armour. The slender hand tucked above the carrier’s hip flaring shifted self-consciously.

“No. When the processor is developed, perhaps.” His fingertips twitched in a stroke. “I’ve never tried to scan an unborn spark before.”

“You will get your chance.”

Megatron tensed, warning enough for Soundwave to move away, and then pushed himself up and back until he was sat with his shoulders against the wall. He grabbed a fistful of cushions and shoved them behind his lower back, then settle fully with a rumble.

Soundwave sat alongside him without comment, resting their arms against one another. 

“Breakdown has… _advised_ that I am accompanied for the sparkling’s emergence,” Megatron said after a pause, staring at some point in the dark ahead of them. He snorted, brushing a finger across his jaw. “And that I should begin to prepare for it. As if it _could_ be prepared for.”

The faceless mech inclined his helm with a subsonic warble – his equivalent of a dry laugh. Megatron was no stranger to pain, and Soundwave had no doubt that he would weather the physical storm in determined stride. Having a sparkling at the end of it was utterly uncharted territory, though, and he could not fathom any point of reference by which his lord may ‘prepare’ himself for the event.

Large claws touched his forearm, drawing his attention, and Soundwave looked up in surprise at the tight expression on Megatron’s face. It was guarded with that intensity of important words he would or could not speak, but would project with every fibre of his being. 

Soundwave was versed in reading such signals. His screen flickered, grey lines streaking the glassy surface. “You would have me there at your sparkling’s emergence, my lord?”

Megatron nodded fractionally, and arched a brow in query. 

In reply, Soundwave dipped his helm and touched his fingertips to his chassis in an old gesture of loyalty and support. He had pledged himself to Megatron in every way already. “It would be my honour.”

“Good,” Megatron replied, short and coarse, but the quietness of the word conveyed no small degree of relief and gratitude. He shifted his arm around Soundwave’s dorsal plates and tipped his helm back against the wall, shuttering his optics.

Soundwave watched his upturned jaw and the shadow of his optic beneath the prow of his helmet, processing this unexpected development. When he tipped his helm into the Commander’s chassis, settling in to power down, he heard an utterance on the edge of his receptors.

_Our sparkling._

He was immediately awake, though continued to lay still and silent so as to let the other mech rest. Whilst Megatron slid into recharge, he busied himself analysing his sensor banks and auditory records for confirmation, for he could not confirm if he’d heard those words or if he’d merely imagined them with such potency that they’d sounded real.


	25. Bang

Things had become blessedly normal aboard the Nemesis. The crew had acclimatised fully to their Lord’s carriage, and Megatron was feeling more rested and suffering fewer physical grievances for the modifications to his life that Breakdown had suggested and Soundwave and Starscream had determinedly enforced.

Not that he would admit to appreciating the vast array of cushions in his quarters and the plush chair in his office under pain of smelting.

The shock of the rumour mill had abated, and sparklings were long in the coming. Though he still caught the occasional sidelong look that lingered a little too long, Megatron found that the crew were treating him just as they had before the news had spread. They gave their reports crisply and respectfully when he visited each department on what had previously been Starscream’s rounds, demonstrated full composure and discipline during troop inspections, and passed him with a brief nod of acknowledgement in the corridors.

Megatron had just been settling into a comfortable daily routine when the wall beside the quantum matrix exploded beside him. 

****

There was a crushing weight across his pelvis and thighs, and his distended stomach was being pressed into the floor. Megatron grunted, optics still offline, and braced his arms to push up against the weight. It didn’t budge. 

Clenching his hands into fists, he onlined his optic and took in the dim space, hazy with mist and dust. Looking back over his shoulder, however, it was not difficult to make out what was pinning him.

Optimus Prime sat straddling him, hands braced on the small of his back. The Autobot’s long legs were twisted down along his own, and his frame was crushingly heavy. Impossibly so.

Megatron bared his teeth and slashed back with one hand, warding the mech off. He was interrupted before he could speak.

“You are not managing this on your own, Megatron,” Optimus said, optics bright with concern.

“Not alone,” Megatron snapped back, looking away and trying to push his body upright. Again, the Prime was immovable.

Optimus sighed, his voice soft. “Ah yes, your commanders.” He ran a hand down Megatron’s side, impervious to the outraged hiss the touch wrought. “However, no matter how many times you take them, however many gallons of transfluid you soak in, that sparkling will never be anything but mine.”

“Your claim is less than nothing. It’s laughable how little you mean.”

“Then why do you keep dreaming of me.”

“It means nothing.”

“You carry a part of me, Megatron.”

“Perhaps the only part worth having.”

“You nurture it.”

“Because it is mine.”

The apparition vibrated, rippled out from a distinct line down the middle, and then Soundwave’s visor appeared where Optimus’s faceplate had been. As the Autobot’s form dissolved completely, Soundwave’s hand slid down to cradle the carrier’s abdominal swell.

*

Megatron jerked out of a soft reboot with an Eradicon kneeling beside his helm. Its neck had been torn open and a data line pulled out. The end of it had been plugged into the diagnostic port beneath the Commander’s arm.

He saw the small space he was buried in by the red hue of the still-operating emergency lights dangling from the ceiling. Sparks from an exposed conduit bathed the chaos in intermittent white light. The lower half of an Eradicon lay before him, everything from the hips up utterly crushed by a section of bulkhead; beyond, a hunched trooper dragging himself forward with an elbow and knee.

There was a distinctive smell in the air: an explosion. 

Megatron looked down his body and found it obscured by a large section of ceiling. He’d had his back to the bulkhead at the time, mercifully, so struts and armour forged to withstand a mine cave-in took the brunt of it and saved his more loosely covered front. The corridor had buckled and warped into the adjacent causeway, the ceiling shattering in a fit of leaking hoses and sparking pipes. 

There was a tinny ringing noise as his audio receptors struggled to adjust, but he could make out muffled shouts and screeching metal in the background. The knot of the sparkling was wedged between his fuel tank and t-cog, forcing a space between them. 

His processor felt muzzy, and his damage report kept stalling and clearing before it could finish compiling. He swept a hand across his helm to feel for any noticeable dents but found none. Stalling anxiety about the sparkling’s welfare for now, the Commander returned his focus to the Eradicon jacked into him. He could feel it skimming through his systems, checking his status down to the smallest reading and sweeping effortlessly through his firewalls.

The footsoldier should not have been able to do that.

Soundwave had slaved it remotely, Megatron realised with a start. He was aware of his Third’s abilities, but he’d never been this close to the results. Soundwave required a hardline connection to hack a processor, so at least he could be sure that the Eradicon had voluntarily opened himself to being puppeted.

It could hardly be pleasant, however.

“Release him, Soundwave,” he said, raising a hand to tug at the cable in his port. “This isn’t necessary.”

“Debatable,” the Eradicon droned, lifting its visor slightly. “Use is consensual, however.”

Megatron gave up with a heavy exvent, deciding to make use of the situation at least. “Report.”

“Quantum matrix in primary engine exploded. Cause: unknown. Structural integrity holding and damage localised. Rescue efforts underway.” “Status?”

“I function. Is the ship compromised?”

“Negative. All-stop precautionary measure, only.”

The Eradicon inclined its helm, field taut and buzzing, then reached out a small hand to the commander’s side. Megatron snarled on impulse at the strange attempt to touch, jerking hard against the debris to free himself.

Immediately the hand withdrew.

“Apologies, Lord Megatron,” Soundwave said through the mech, having forgotten himself for a moment. It was unprecedented for him, and he was privately mortified. He pressed on quickly. “The rescue team will be with you in fifteen minutes. Environment is deemed too unstable to risk a ground bridge. Relinquishing control of this mechanism now, my Lord.”

The instant that Soundwave withdrew, the Eradicon pitched forward clutching its helm. It shivered, visor flashing in rapid recalibrations, then sat up again once it had recovered itself.

Megatron waited in silence. He was privately glad of Soundwave's interference if only to get an update on the situation. Electrical interference from the damaged matrix had rendered his comm.s useless, and he was loathe to be trapped here without knowing the state of the ship.

Soundwave would also have raised an alarm if the sparkling had been injured or was in any significant danger - on the chance that Megatron himself wouldn't have been able to tell. As it was, he knew his gestation chamber had been squeezed into a space that hadn't been there before, trigging red pressure warnings from eight filters, both coolant reserves, twenty-three major fuel hoses and his sump tank. It was uncomfortable, but nothing was irreparably damaged or actively leaking. His outer armour had halted the compression of his frame and saved the sparkling as it had his vital systems.

"Lord Megatron!"

The urgency in the Vehicon's voice drew him from his reverie rather than the address. Megatron looked and saw that the red visor was bright with unveiled alarm, directed towards the decking he was sprawled on.

Energon was seeping out from under his body, winding around splinters of metal and cabling as the puddle expanded.

Megatron frowned and shifted again, scouring his damage reports for any numb areas that could be leaking like that. He felt resistance under his right pelvic flare; an uneveness which was also twisting his backstrut beneath the fallen ceiling.

"I'm led on someone," he deduced, satisfied that the unknown crushed Eradicon was the source of the energon. "It's not mine."

Despite the revelation of another body, the soldier was immediately relieved. It dragged itself closer, one broken leg trailing behind, and began pulling at the smaller pieces of metal burying the Commander.

It was a relatively pointless exercise but Megatron didn't comment. If anything, it was a distraction from the wait for the recovery team.

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of a 3-part "plot" chapter, which was just getting too big to be posted whole. Thank you for reading!


	26. Crash

****

Recovery had taken half an hour, in total, and Megatron had gone to the medical bay under his own power. Breakdown had found no obvious injuries or signs of trauma in the sparkling, which had made the mech even more concerned and led him to restrict Megatron to the obstetric room for half a cycle under observation. When Knock Out had supported his assistant’s orders, and thus the medical override of their Commander’s authority, Megatron had simply rose and stalked out.

Breakdown had made a single attempt to stop him leaving, but Starscream’s demands that he stay in the obstetric room until the medic cleared him to leave lasted three decks. Megatron had turned a deaf audio to the Seeker: appearances must be maintained if the explosion _had_ been sabotage, and he would submit to Breakdown’s scrutiny afterwards. 

Megatron sat heavily in the chair that dominated the space, flanked by Starscream and Soundwave, and fought not to show how bad an idea the walk up here had been. Their Chief Engineer, Traction, stood ready to give the findings of his preliminary investigation. 

Traction was a dark purple mech of a similar design to Breakdown, but held himself with a sturdy air of confidence and calm. He’d squared his shoulders up and back after his initial salute, and met each of the mech’s optics when they spoke to him. 

He absolutely did not look at the lower half of his Lord’s body.

“Was it sabotage?” Megatron’s asked after the damage had been described and number of causalities and wounded confirmed. Eleven dead, twenty-six wounded – including himself, though he would dispute the label.

Traction shook his head. “It’s an old part that’s taken a lot of abuse. More likely it’s just failed on its own. It needs replacing.”

“Can’t we just repair it?” Starscream asked, falling automatically into the pattern these meetings usually followed. Megatron spoke little but with finality – it was up to his commanders to elicit the particulars through dialogue.

“No.” Traction folded his arms, shoulder plates bunching wide as he rocked his weight. “Frankly Commander, that rod was ten-thousand stellar kliks past its lifecycle already. If we patch it, next time it goes, it could take the whole ship with it.”

“Nearest shipyard: Kimia,” Soundwave said, displaying the coordinates on his screen. “Neutral.”

Starscream nodded deeply, which did little to disguise his surreptitious glance towards Megatron. “Can we overrun it?”

In answer, Soundwave extended a datacable towards the nearest console. A flicker of movement across the keys, and then the spider-like structure of the Kimia spacestation appeared on the main screen. “Kimia is a private port, and has been fortifying itself since the outbreak of war,” he said, rotating the expanding the image to highlight its components. “Nine gun batteries, fortified shielding and armed pilot vessels in addition to anti-bridge field which extends for thirty kilometres beyond the outermost docks.”

It painted a grim picture for an assault. Megatron noted the personnel statistics – three thousand workers and civilians- and tried to guess at how many Autobots could be passing through the commercial port as well.

Traction made a sound like a gear catching, his mouth twitching in a grimace before he composed himself once again. “We would need to dock, Sirs, and have nacelles two and four removed to repair the part.”

Starscream’s wings snapped up in a wide flare. “We’ll be sitting petrorabbits!”

Megatron raised a hand to the Seeker, hoping to stem the hysterical tide before it could gather any momentum. “The gun batteries are to protect ships undergoing repairs as much as to protect the port,” he said, curling his fingers back around the armrest of the throne. “The Nemesis would be fine.”

It was not the potential danger to the Nemesis that simmered as a concern, however, and each one of them knew it. Were the situation ‘normal’, they would have already set a course and begun transferring funds to the necessary manufacturers to get the warship back in fighting form again. However, and as no one dared say aloud, the situation was far from ‘normal’.

“The Nemesis will be physically linked to Kimia,” Soundwave said, turning fractionally towards Megatron. “Exponentially increasing the chances of sabotage.”

“And infiltration,” Starscream added darkly, folding his slender arms across his chassis.

Traction exvented heavily as he weighed his words, checking himself for any sign of presumptuousness before daring to speak. “Correct, Sirs. The only other option is to limp on to Nautilus, the closest Decepticon space dock, but that could take eight weeks. Kimia is just under five solar cycles away.”

Silence fell as the subordinates looked to the Decepticon Commander for his verdict. Megatron swallowed back a wave of nausea, staring at the station turning in a slow rotation on the viewscreen in order to ignore the cramping aches and pains accumulating in his midsection. He needed to lie down and loosen –if not remove- the armour there.

Clenching his hands around the arms of the thrones, Megatron waited a moment longer and then pushed to his feet as if having reached his decision. He swayed, unbalanced, but covered the borderline-stagger with a step towards the image of the station.

“This is a critical repair, and it will be unavoidable to dock with Kimia,” he intoned, his hands curled into fists at his sides. He looked between all three mechs awaiting his orders. “Increase security measures wherever possible, and be discreet in requisitioning the parts for repairs.” 

Traction bowed whilst speaking assent, then vanished from the command deck even faster than he’d arrived. Starscream exchanged a loaded look with Soundwave before striding towards the active console, preparing to authorise the course-change. 

Megatron was not surprised when his Third simply moved to his side and kept pace with him down the dais, following him with silent approval towards the doors and the ultimate destination of the obstetric wing.

***

Starscream’s gifted throne was oversized and sturdy; more than capable of accommodating Megatron’s half-led sprawl, his legs hooked over the Autobot’s arms.

Optimus knelt on the deck of the Nemesis control room, gripping Megatron’s hips like a lifeline and working over his spike like it was sacred. Powerful jaws pulled just the right amount of pressure around his shaft, and Megatron’s ventilations were rasps and choked groans as the Prime’s glossa flicked and lathed. He gripped the Prime’s finials but resisted guiding his helm until he lost all semblance of control, and then the carrier thrust up short and sharp into the pliant intake that took him deep and easy.

Soundwave couldn’t do this for him, and Starscream –whilst indulgent- lacked the genuine enthusiasm to do it just like this. Exactly as he liked it. But Orion had taken great pleasure in learning what whited his vision and stalled his pumps, altruistic soul he’d been, and Optimus remembered perfectly well every nuanced stroke and edge of dente at just the right moment.

Megatron finally overloaded dry, heels digging into the other mech’s shoulders, and lay back panting and dizzy from the high. Optimus kissed his spike, his hip, his thigh, hands stroking and soothing until they curved up and over heated abdominal plates. Then his blunt fingers stilled, spreading to cover as much of the sparkling’s mass as they could.

“I missed you,” Optimus murmured, looking up with a raw mix of relief and pleasure. 

Before Megatron could drag together some kind of response, he was lifted and turned. The raw display of power was underscored by the possessive sweep of Optimus’s hand from nape to thigh, following a familiar trail that lit up his dorsal sensors. Optimus sat back on the Decepticon throne in the same movement as he pulled Megatron into his lap, and he went willing and eager and the hot slide inside was the definition of perfection.

Optimus mouthed at his neck, turning his helm into Megatron’s finial-licks and grasping hands. He didn’t thrust up but allowed the carrying mech to roll and snap his hips, moaning a litany of praise and encouragement. Megatron bent to press their forehelms together, optics shuttered as he chased the penetrative overload his coding sought.

“I missed you so much,” Optimus went on, his voice laced through with pleasure-rich static.

A black hand slipped around where their abdominal plates were pressed flush, reaching beneath the distorting bulk of the sparkling. 

“There’s so much we can do now,” Optimus said as he pressed two fingers against the mech’s exterior node, giving him a ridge to grind against. 

“Yes,” Megatron hissed, helm thrown back and dente gritted.

Optimus ran lips, teeth and tongue up the heavy mech’s central seam, teasing over the split to his spark. “You took out the corrupt, you achieved equality.”

“Yes...” It came out more a moan than a word.

Optimus trailed his damp hand up from the sensitive node to grasp the back of the commander’s helm. “Now we can work together towards peace,” he murmured into Megatron’s left audio, igniting a flashfire thread of heat that ran straight down his backstrut.

Powerful hands gripped Megatron’s hips and eased him backwards. The floor was soft and forgiving against his struts, plush as mesh.

“Yes…” 

Optimus’s rhythm didn’t falter, continuing smooth and perfect as he positioned himself over the mech. “I’ve had enough of killing each other. I’m finished with death. I want life.”

Megatron hooked a leg across his back, rocking into each deep thrust. It was like freefalling into oblivion. His optics were offline, blind to anything but pleasure. “Yes...”

The Prime leaned in low, mouthing the thick cables of Megatron’s neck with soft kisses and blunt bites. One hand palmed the mass between them. “I want this,” he murmured into his audio, so low and deep it made the carrier shudder.

“Yes...”

“I want family,” Optimus purred with a harder snap of his hips, crashing his spike that much deeper.

Megatron’s backstrut arched of its own accord, his optics snapping online with a flash of white. “ _Yes… _”__

__Two more solid thrusts and then the Prime held himself deep, shuddering and clinging as he was being clung to. He buried his face into the curve of Megatron’s neck, spoke into his musclemesh, but his voice was neither muffled nor diminished._ _

__“I want us to fall in love again.”_ _

__****_ _

__Megatron woke gasping, overheating so badly there were wisps of grey rising from his seams. In the dark, in the familiar space of his quarters, but his panels were open and slick and there was the ghost of a body against his and poisonous words in his audios. Pushing himself abruptly upright on the berth, Megatron barely had the presence of mind to turn and retch over the edge rather than purge his tank down his front._ _

__Rolling off the berth, he landed with a stagger and a whining crunch as internal stress threw his systems out of synch. Groping blindly for the wall, Megatron used the bulkhead as a guide and a brace to get to the adjoining shower._ _

__Soundwave watched from where he’d been standing sentry by the door, waiting until he heard the cleanser turn on before beginning his cautious approach._ _

__****_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's stuck with this so far, and again for everyone who's left a comment or a kudos. I can't believe how much this thing continues to grow, and I hope you guys keep enjoying the ride.


	27. Wreck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was keen to get this out before I get buried under work, so I've been grinding hard at it for the last three days. Hope it's alright! 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's been reviewing, kudos-ing and generally giving me all manner of warm fuzzies. You guys rock.

Megatron stood facing the wall and scrubbed himself under as cold a spray as he could bear. The cleanser foamed thick across his hands from how much he’d used, but it didn’t feel like enough to get clean. His overloads were dry now, however, so aside from a spatter of purged fuel and the lubricant on his thighs, there was nothing to clean.

The feel of hands sliding about and gripping his body in possessive lust didn’t abate, and he discarded the washcloth with a snarl. Megatron raked his fingers across and between his plates, clawing at his stinging mesh as if the sensation would go if he worked the cleanser in deeper and harder. His midsection ached fiercely from the internal bruising he’d sustained in the crush, compounded now by a violent tremble that was spreading from his hands throughout his body.

Warnings flashed across his processor that his systems were stressed, the atmosphere was too cold, and that he was leaking from dozens of minor lacerations and abrasions. Megatron pressed his forehelm into the bulkhead and clenched his jaw, trying to wrestle back some control. He knew, distantly, that is was ludicrous, but panic had him by the throat and wasn’t letting go.

He heard Soundwave enter the washrack with uncharacteristically noisy steps, and then the shower turned gradually warmer. There was a degree’s difference between soothing and scorching, however, and the spray abruptly shut off at Megatron’s hiss. 

It was as though the shower had been holding him up. Megatron turned in the sudden silence and dropped bodily against the wall on the floor. His head was spinning and his tank churned fumes, sick and exhausted and spun too far into an emotional upheaval he didn’t feel remotely equipped to handle.

Soundwave knelt gracefully at his hip, leaning over the bigger mech’s curled and twisted body. There was still the threat of violence, which was why he’d held back so far, but it was diminishing with every micron the carrier curled in on himself.

He grazed his fingers over Megatron’s, clutching at his helm, then lay his hands flat over the sharp knuckles. Droning a low, soft note, he projected _calm_ and _safe_ in electromagnetic waves.

“Peace, my Lord,” he murmured, just audible over the roar of the mech’s vents. “Peace.”

Megatron’s helm jerked in denial, optics two slits of red – more like wounds in the shadows of his downturned face. His teeth were clenched and bared, hot ventilations hissing through the gaps.

“He has _no_ claim,” he bit out, growling when the power of his belief was not in the inflection. His voice was static-crackled, quiet and breathless.

Soundwave heard as well as if Megatron had screamed it into his audio. _No claim: to the sparkling, nor to Megatron himself._

He tightened his grip over the mech’s hands. “None, my Lord.”

Megatron grimaced and turned his face away, letting Soundwave’s touch resettled on his shoulders. The armour of his chassis flexed and twitched in erratic jerks as his ventilations continued to come hard and ragged, rendering his cooling system ineffective and his processor light. He dragged his hands down his face, relishing the solid _realness_ of the sensation, and snarled. “Why do I dream of him?”

Soundwave placed both hands over the swell of his abdominal plates. It was an exceptionally bold touch, usually restricted to the berth, but he’d never seen the mech in this state and felt that extraordinary measures were required. 

The touched seemed to help ground Megatron, and Soundwave tipped his faceplate into his wandering stare. He pressed on the hidden mass under soft abdominal plates, feeling in startling clarity the curve of a solid body and the give of the gestational tank over lubrication and energon-rich fluids. “This is old,” he said, his tone urging. “And _flawed._ The coding-”

Megatron knocked the slender hands away with one sweeping strike, snarling. “I am not an animal, slave to its code.”

Soundwave withdrew his hands fully, not encroaching as the bigger mech’s field flared and lashed. “You are not,” he affirmed, wishing momentarily that they were hardlined so that he could fully relay how much he believed that; his complete confidence that Megatron held no torch for Orion-that-was or Optimus-as-now. 

They were caught in an uneasy stand-off for long seconds. Soundwave waited with infinite patience for some cue as to how to help; Megatron shuttered his optics and continued to twitch and over-ventilate. 

The silence was broken by the outer door opening, and then heavy footfalls approaching the wash rack. Breakdown strode into the small room as if going into battle; determined and focused. He set his frequencies to broadcast _medic-safe_ and knelt close to the carrier, opening the medical case he’d brought with him on the wet floor. He risked splaying a hand across Megatron’s chassis to ground him as well as to feel for any troubling vibrations or knockings inside. He had the bulk to take the blow if the carrier lashed out, but his solid touch was only greeted with a shudder. 

Breakdown lay his other hand over the underside of the mech’s gauntlet, surreptitiously feeling for a port should he need to jack in. At the same time, he deactivated the mufflers on his ventilation system so that Megatron may hear and try to mimic the rhythm.

“Big vents – that’s it,” he murmured, low and firm. “Your systems just need to slow down, now.”

Slowly, painstakingly, the big mech’s vents eased back from short blasts of hot air and gasping intakes. Breakdown drew his hand away from Megatron’s chassis and dug a penlight out from the medical pack. 

“Alright, follow this light. That’s good. ” He moved the small light from side to side twice, then up and down, satisfied that the red optics followed it. They did not focus correctly, but it wasn’t entirely unexpected.

Megatron blinked away the afterglow of the torch, just vaguely recognising Breakdown’s silhouette. “I’m fine,” he muttered, by default more than anything else. 

Breakdown’s grunt was unconvinced. “I’ll be the judge of that. Put your hand on my arm next.” He lifted the larger hand into position onto his gauntlet, keeping his on top to hold it in place. “Squeeze with your first finger. Second. Third. Now your fourth. Good. That’s good.”

It was rare that he have to talk a patient down like this, and he could only bully past the fear that he’d trigger another panic response or otherwise make things worse. He was glad it was him here and not Knock Out, however; their Chief Medical Officer didn’t have this kind of patience, and got squeamish around emotional distress.

Most of it, he knew, was just being a calm and obvious anchor that a patient could physically and psychologically hold on to. Just talking and reassuring went a long way, most of the time. Certainly Megatron seemed better than the state he was in when Breakdown first saw him.

“You still have a monitor on, my Lord. The alarm went off,” Breakdown said by way of explaining his presence, as no doubt Megatron would suspect that Soundwave had summoned him. 

The question of what Breakdown was doing in his quarters hadn’t crossed Megatron’s mind, preoccupied as it was with system alerts, physical discomfort and the lingering unease brought about by the dream. He forced his optics open, forced himself to acknowledge Breakdown, but did not look away from the wall. “It was just a flux. It’s nothing.”

“Yeah, an’ I’m a minibot,” Breakdown muttered, fatigue causing him to bypass his usual internal censor. He’d been in defrag when the alarm went off both inside his processor and on his terminal, and his processor threads weren’t entirely all together just yet.

Breakdown set up the portable scanner without actually looking at it. He was fairly satisfied that Megatron hadn’t done any real physical damage to himself, though he had likely exacerbated the internal bruising he was already suffering. What these symptoms were attributed to was not so simple as physical damage, and though he felt like he was wading out of his depth, Breakdown also felt compelled to live up to the faith the carrier had in him as his physician. 

“How’re you feeling now?” he asked after a minute, obviously settling himself on the wet floor.

Megatron sighed and seemed to collect himself more with the exvent. He shifted so that he was sat with his back against the wall rather than curled sideways into it, drawing his legs up into a more casual sitting position. “Better. It’ll pass soon enough.”

Breakdown exchanged a look with his reflection in Soundwave’s visor, then turned back to Megatron. “Yeah? Are you doing this regularly enough to know that?”

“Frequency of disrupting fluxes: increasing,” Soundwave said before Megatron could lie otherwise. The carrier glanced towards him with an expression bordering on a glower. Soundwave cocked his head in mild challenge, immovable as ever when it came to overseeing his Lord’s wellfare.

Breakdown didn’t take any notice of the silent exchange. “Tell me about them.”

“No.” Megatron set his wrists on his knees and tipped his helm back, looking up at the dripping shower set in the ceiling. “It’s personal and irrelevant.”

The medic rubbed a hand across his jaw, masking any sign of his frustration. Whilst he understood and respected Megatron’s privacy, this irrelevant personal problem had clearly escalated to the point where some intervention was required. But talking a mech like Megatron into discussing dreams and feelings was going to be _challenging_ and potentially dangerous.

However it was his duty, in the interest of his patient, to try. Breakdown bit the side of his glossa and steeled himself: both for the fight and for the potential revelations of victory. “This could be symptomatic of an underlying problem, and I might be able to do something about the fluxes. What’re they about?”

“Don’t.” The single word was bitten out, red optics still directed upwards.

Soundwave put a hand on his shoulder. His field was a miasma of concern and earnest encouragement. “Lord Megatron, please.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed and his upper lip curled. He was silent for a long time, and then he finally replied to the ceiling; “Him. They’re about him. Prime. And myself”

Breakdown nodded as if that was the answer he’d expected. “That makes sense, given his relation-”

“It’s absurd,” Megatron snapped, suddenly looking at the blue mech with a fiery wave of anger and frustration. “I do not believe that having a sparkling with someone can _mean_ anything more than failed contraception.”

“No you’re right,” Breakdown was quick to say, sitting forward in earnest. “What I meant was that you two had a… history. The code has more memory and emotion to play on, and with him being leader of the Autobots, it’s not as though you can totally put him from your mind. This doesn’t _mean_ anything: only that the code knows who the sire is and is pushing for transfluid with the same CNA.”

Megatron was not looking away from him now. “How can you stop it?” 

Breakdown sat back a little, and was glad all over again for Soundwave’s silent presence. He had no answers to offer that Megatron was going to like. “Well, uh, there’s no software patch, if that’s what you mean. Counselling, talking, is all you can do. Just keep reiterating that the reality is nothing like the dreams, and the coding should calm down.”

The advice was of no comfort, but Megatron had to battle to cling to his anger over the fact so as not to succumb to the wave of defeat that nothing real could be done. He could not understand how something he absolutely did not want could dominate his recharge cycles like this, and he felt again the need to say aloud that he did not want Optimus Prime in his berth.

“There is nothing encouraging this.”

“No, of course not,” Breakdown replied with a nod, “but like I said: this is old, basic-instinct coding. It doesn’t a lot of direction from the conscious mind, and anything can be a trigger to it. That transmission from the Autobots a few weeks ago, the trauma of the explosion-”

“They’re getting worse.”

Breakdown blinked at the sudden admission. “Worse how?”

Megatron would not speak of feelings expressed or emotions wrought, and it took a moment for him to come up with an acceptable answer. “More vivid.”

It wasn’t a explicitly clear answer, but Breakdown could guess at the meaning given the code’s prompting for the sire’s CNA and Megatron’s reluctance to say directly what the dreams were about. He was thoughtful for a moment, and then asked, “How is it when you come online with someone else here? Someone else’s field.”

 _That_ , at least, Megatron could answer. “Better. They’re not as frequent, and I… know where I am, afterwards.”

The slender mech still crouched to one side raised a hand to his own chassis. Laserbeak was absent, making him appear even slighter than normal, but it meant that the gesture with his fingers lay closer to his spark. “With your permission, my Lord, Soundwave will take up full residency here for as long as you allow.”

Breakdown, much as he was privy to, was still aware that there were _boundaries_ as to what he could say and do. He gave the slightest of nods to Soundwave to convey that that would be advisable, but said nothing outright to Megatron. Their Commander did not need medical advice on his relationships or cohabitation situation, particularly if his fervent desire to see to the sparkling’s welfare might put him into a situation that he would otherwise choose not to entertain.

After a minute’s consideration, Megatron looked up to his Third’s facial screen for confirmation and finally nodded his assent. Then, mustering himself, he braced a hand against the wall and began to push himself to his pedes. He didn’t resist Breakdown’s solid hand at his elbow, steadying him. 

“Alright,” Breakdown said with firm authority, managing to keep his gladness over that nod out of his voice. “I strongly recommend that you _rest_ today, Lord Megatron, ideally on a berth. Ideally, Commander Soundwave ought to stay with you and tend to anything you might need today. System stress makes everything worse, so we want to get you as comfortable and relaxed as possible for the bruised mesh to recover.”

“Understood.” The muttered acknowledgement was resigned, succumbing to weariness and Soundwave’s iron will. Megatron kept a hand against the wall as he began to make his way towards the doorway, faintly surprising himself by not shrugging off Breakdown’s supporting hand about his arm.

Soundwave stood watching the bigger mechs, not wishing to crowd Megatron or clutter the entrance to the washrack with another body when they were making their way out. 

He reviewed what Breakdown had advised about minimising stress, and paired the requirement with the circumstances the Nemesis had found itself in. The threat of the sparkling’s discovery would be significantly greater whilst the ship was docked at Kimia, and this kind of information about the Decepticon Commander would inevitably get back to Optimus, whom –if Soundwave’s profiling was right- would try to make contact. 

Soundwave threaded a section of his processor to the ship’s mainframe and quickly analysed the traffic between them and the station. Theoretically, Megatron could disembark onto one of the two Deception ships in the area for the duration of the repair – which Traction’s estimate put at ten days. However that would remove him from the obstetric bay, Breakdown’s trusted expertise and Soundwave’s sight. 

Better their Commander remain confined on the flagship and they ensure that none of the repair crew ventured further than absolutely necessary. Megatron would be confined to the Nemesis, of course, and ideally situated in spare quarters in case the ship _were_ infiltrated. They would need time to set that up – longer than they had given themselves at present.

He opened a textual comm. line to Starscream on the bridge. ::Lord Megatron to be relocated for security to isolated quarters whilst the Nemesis is at Kimia. Additionally, the ship will be required to reduce speed in order to arrive after the parts are delivered to Kimia. Recommend adjusting speed to arrive in eight to nine solar cycles.::

There was a brief pause, then, ::Acknowledged.::

Soundwave stepped away from the wall and exited the washrack, satisfied with the response and that Megatron could be informed of the delay later. It would give them time to tighten security, rework patrol rotas, and prepare a room for their Lord. Most significantly, and what would _not_ be said to Megatron: it would give the carrier time to recover and rest before entering into a high-stress, low-activity situation.

For now, he would spend as long as necessary led at his Lord’s back. Loyal and devout. 

****

At the end of the biweekly officer’s meeting, Jazz stood to deliver the latest on Operation: What’s Up With Megatron. After surmising how no one was talking despite tapping his best informants, he announced that they may finally have a potential breakthrough.

“The Nemesis has requested docking at Kimia station in a week’s time.”

Never one for lengthy meetings around a big table, Ironhide was slumped in his chair at the opposite end of the room. He rolled his optics at Jazz’s enthusiasm. “And it ain’t gonna be any less impregnable this time than any other it’s been at a civilian depot.” 

Jazz held up two fingers, one on each hand, and grinned. “Ah, but it is. Ain’t shore leave or resupply this time. They’re in for repairs.”

Ironhide grunted with a raised brow. “How d’you know that?”

Optimus looked up to Jazz with interest, folding his hands on the table. Jazz made a point to address all the assembled officers as well as the Prime, however, in part because of the audacity of his proposed plan.

“Warships of the Nemesis’ calibre aren’t common, so when a big part – I mean a really big part blows, they have to buy up from outside the Decepticon sector,” he explained, meeting each pair of optics in turn. “All the parts for a quantum matrix nacelle have been selling in the last thirty hours, and they’re being delivered to Kimia.”

“We are 97% certain that they’re destined for the Nemesis,” Prowl added calmly, nodding to the datapad that had been positioned in front of his since the meeting started. All the relevant data and SpecOp’s analysis were detailed there, and would be forwarded after the meeting.

Jazz folded his arms, doorwings twitching up. “One of the parts that hasn’t been dispatched yet, the relay case, has a Jazz-sized cavity in it. If I get to Alderhex in the next few hours, I can infiltrate that shipment, get shipped on to Kimia, and smuggle myself right into the Nemesis proper with the repair crew. Inside, I can get into the service hatches, maintenance crawlspaces and the vent system to get a good close look at Buckethead.”

Red Alert shook his head. “They scan for lifesigns by default on all cargo. You’d be found by Kimia’s custom department, and it’d be nothing short of a legal nightmare to get you back.”

Jazz nodded, having already heard –and deflected- the same from Prowl. “SpecOps R&D have come up with a lead additive that’ll absorb and deflect scans. Since I’m getting a full repaint anyway, I’ll get the lead camo too.” He threw his palms up to the taciturn medic and flashed him a hopefully-disarming grin. “Temporary! Before you blow a fuse, Ratchet.”

The boxy mech _harrumphed_ , glowering. He sat at an angle with one arm on the table. “Because that’s just what I need: you coming in hallucinating with lead poisoning.”

Optimus didn’t look convinced. “The risks aside. That’s… eight days in a box, Jazz. Are you sure about this?”

“I’ll take a book.” Jazz nodded when the borderline-flippant answer was met with a very dry look from the Prime. “And I’ll be in low-level stasis for six of those days to conserve power. I’ll sleep right through transit.”

Prowl sat forward as a simple, effective means of drawing attention. He placed the tip of his index finger on the datapad, effectively indicating Jazz’s proposal and the report behind it. “This is the best opportunity we may get, and with how little data on Megatron’s current situation there is currently circulating, I do not believe we will get solid answers any other way than direct observation.”

Optimus trusted his officers and their judgement. If Prowl and Jazz were confident that this was the only way, he did not need to see their report to believe as much. He would read it to discuss the particulars with them, but he had enough now for a simple green light. His curiosity over Megatron’s potential ill-health had grown in recent weeks, and sometimes he struggled to deny to himself that it was purely military interest.

“Mission approved,” he said simply, sensing how those two words broke the quietly-building tension in the room. “Good luck.”

****


	28. Entr'acte

Much as he trusted Megatron to abide by medical advisement when it came to the sparkling, Soundwave struck whilst the iron was hot. As soon as the carrier had calmed enough to fall into recharge, he’d located a room of suitable size and position and prepared the work to detail to commence the following day.

Prepping spaces for visiting generals and ship commanders was fairly routine, but twilight orders from Soundwave himself made it easy to guess as to who was likely to be occupying them. As a result, the Eradicons tasked with converting the unused laboratory space into temporary quarters were beyond vigilant, and the set up exceeded parameters for ‘adequate’.

Two days after work began, and six days out of Kimia, Soundwave arrived at the start of his duty shift to install the work console that had been delivered an hour before. It gave him ample opportunity to look in on the room’s status, and he was pleased to note the addition of soft furnishings and other comforts for their usually utilitarian lord. 

A fresh array of cushions (thicker and firmer than the first batch) were arranged neatly on a generously sized berth in the corner, itself tucked behind a folding privacy screen that concealed it from the doorway. There was a similarly cushion-furnished sofa opposite a viewscreen on the wall, a low table of pede-propping height positioned in between. The only sole-occupancy chair was behind the work console, and was of the same schematics as the one custom-fabricated for the Commander’s office. 

All of the laboratory’s furniture had been stripped out save for a section of storage cupboards, shelves and a countertop, which now held a small energon dispenser and a refrigeration unit. Soundwave had pondered the latter at first, then recalled a paragraph in ‘Anticipating Carriers’ that noted late-term mecha sometimes found temperature regulation during recharge difficult, and that a cube of cooled oil or fuel could settle them. The Eradicons could be diligent in their studies, it seemed, and Soundwave noted the serial number of the one who’d requisitioned the refrigerator for later.

Starscream breezed in when Soundwave was halfway through setting up the security protocols on the console. He stopped just inside the threshold so that the door stayed open behind him.

“Dismissed.” The word was delivered at speaking-volume with the assurance of constant attentiveness.

The four Eradicons in the room immediately stepped back from what they’d been doing and filed out. When it was just the command staff left, Starscream finally stepped forward from the door and had it lock behind him. Soundwave shook his helm a little at the melodrama and continued tapping at the console.

Srarscream began a slow tour of the room, hands behind his back, his expression one of deep scrutiny. “Wash rack?”

Soundwave indicated the door to his right, which had previously been a decontamination room. There had been a bench under the shower, but he’d had it removed as soon as he’d seen it. There was anticipating carriers and there was getting slagged for presumptuousness and injured pride.

A casual investigation of the cupboards was next, which Soundwave hadn’t actually looked inside. He watched Starscream explore a stack of energon cubes, half a dozen containers of assorted additives and flavourings, and two medical cases that drew his attention. Likely a grab-bag for Breakdown, but Soundwave would not be satisfied until he’d reviewed their contents.

After looking in every corner, Starscream did not leave but went to the sofa and sat primly at one end. He drummed his fingers on the armrest. “Hn. It’s like we’re expecting our Lord to live here permanently, not for a matter of days. Has he seen it yet?”

Soundwave shook his head. “Unnecessary.” 

Megatron trusted his subordinates with setting up a living space, though undoubtedly some of this was going to be a surprise. That there were even _more_ cushions on the Nemesis, for a start.

“And you?” Starscream turned his helm fractionally; just enough to watch the mech from the corner of his optic. Clearly he expected Soundwave to come to him.

Resigned to the fact that the Seeker wasn’t going to leave until he’d discussed –even obliquely- whatever required a locked door, Soundwave deactivated the console and crossed the room. He came to stand against the wall beside the viewscreen, directly opposite Starscream, and tipped his helm inquiringly.

“Living together.” A smirk crossed Starscream’s lips like oil over water, and he glanced towards the privacy screen in the corner. “The berth is certainly oversized, even for our Lord.”

Soundwave’s fingers curled at his sides. He slid them into the blade configuration of his forearms. “Weight rating: sufficient for three mechs.”

A snort and Starscream looked away. “Unnecessary,” he replied, echoing Soundwave’s flat tone. He raised his fingers, curled into his palm, as if examining them. “Much as I’ve thoroughly enjoyed our trysts, I’m not one for sleeping over. Nor sharing.”

Soundwave processed that a moment, watching but not really seeing. He waited for the Seeker to go on.

Starscream crossed his legs casually, one elbow still resting on the arm of the sofa. “I’m stepping back. Obviously you’re capable of meeting our Lord’s needs, and if you end up cohabitating long-term…”

Trailing off seemed to surprise Starscream as much as Soundwave. He cleared his vocaliser, rubbing his knuckles up his cockpit, and finally stood. A huff of an exvent and he finally met that unreadable visor once again with a sly smile. He cocked a brow. “And besides: _someone_ needs to run this damn ship.”

Soundwave was still trying to process and could only nod fractionally at the barb, mild as it was. He barely registered Starscream’s thoughtful hum, bordering on a scoff, and remained immobile as the Seeker turned and took his leave. 

Of the room and the mech it was intended for.

 

****

Jazz spent the majority of transit in stasis, roused by a pre-set alarm twenty hours from arriving at Kimia. His plating itched and was rough to touch, the lead filaments mixed into the rust-red paint irritating in a low-level sort of way.

He would spend the last leg of his journey analysing the latest known data on the Nemesis. They’d gotten hold of the schematics from its original build a year ago in a mission that had cost two agents their lives. The warship had undergone one significant overhaul since then to install its gun batteries, and Jazz was pretty confident that the internal structure was much the same. 

Now it was a question of guessing where the command staff’s living quarters would be, and how best to get there from inside the bulkheads. Prowl would have his exit and back-up extraction already in place at Kimia, so all Jazz had to concern himself with was finding Megatron before he could be discovered and _staying_ undiscovered on the station until the Nemesis left again.

As reconnaissance missions went, this was going to be a breeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this short but necessary interlude came as a disappointment to anyone. Extra-long, extra-dramatic chapter next time... Thanks for reading!


	29. Crucible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been grinding and agonizing over this for weeks, and I don't think I'll ever be happy with it. So take it. Take all the drama!

After two days at Kimia, things had settled into a routine. 

The Neutral engineering crew had free access to the area they were repairing, but were escorted at every task and subject to identity verification at both boarding and disembarkation. Three pre-screened engineers had clearance to enter the command room in order to access the consoles and ensure appropriate and accurate communication between the ship’s newly installed components.

There had not been another sizeable Autobot vessel currently docked, though Kimia rejected their request for details of incoming traffic to ascertain if an enemy warship would arrive before they could leave. The installation of the replacement rod and parts destroyed in the explosion when the previous one failed was all going smoothly. 

After the initial flurry of activity as the ship was physically moored and half its engine disabled and disassembled, the atmosphere on board was quiet. Tense, but quiet. Things were as under control as they could be, and unable to go to the bridge or anywhere else on the ship where he might be glimpsed by a visiting engineer, Megatron found himself with limited work to do in his new temporary quarters.

Soundwave spent the entirety of his off-duty period with the carrier, now – often continuing to work but physically present in the room. It was easy to adjust to, Megatron had found, to both his surprise and pleasure. Also against his expectations, it seemed that living together did not increase the frequency of their couplings. Instead, it had led to a deepening level of _intimacy_ in their behaviour with one another.

Presently, Megatron was watching a documentary on the Camian Industrial Revolution with Soundwave tucked into his side, one arm around the smaller mech’s shoulders. Soundwave was wirelessly connected to Kimia’s public datanet and skimming the local chatter.

Soundwave twitched, the equivalent of bolting upright for many mecha. Megatron looked down at the crown of his helm. “What?”

“Is there pain? Discomfort?”

“No.” For emphasis, Megatron fidgeted a little in the mess of pillows that were supporting every micron of his backstrut and pelvis. “Why?”

“Detected: anomaly. Disturbance in your frame. Ninth recorded incident in two days.”

“My frame is uncommonly content, at present. Perhaps you’re detecting the sparkling.”

Soundwave nodded, then turned into the bigger mech to lay a hand across his midrift. There was no hesitation in the movement. In private, touch came easily between them now. After a moment, he confirmed, “Processor: online.”

Megatron watched the slender fingers arrange over his side, presumably where the helm was position. “It’s not, _conscious_ , is it?”

A click in the negative. Soundwave concentrated on the half-built processor buried beneath mech and lubricating fluids, thrumming alive and well. He had passively felt a glimmer through body contact with Megatron and was keen to see what his focussed attention would yield. 

“It is not self-aware,” he said, unconsciously leaning his helm a little closer. “There are… sensations. Ripples. Warmth. Contentment. It is difficult to describe.”

The carrier made a thoughtful sound, his expression carefully neutral. Though he couldn’t feel the sparkling beyond the outward distension of his frame, it was gratifying to see Soundwave taking such quiet pleasure in it.

Things had been in a constant state of adjustment and change for months, with no little amount of frustration and weariness along with it. What was happening here, however, as unfamiliar and unknown as it was… It was like falling. Effortless. All he had to do was welcome it.

It was nothing like this with Starscream.

Before the sparkling, Megatron had enjoyed the private parries and violent passion born of their clashing ideas and egos. Carrying had brought a tangible need into the mix that neither he nor Starscream were comfortable to explore with one another. Interfacing was one thing; the tending and intimate support that the sparkling natural drew about was quite another. That route led to emotions that he and Starscream had already silently agreed didn’t work between them.

Soundwave, however, perhaps in part due to his position as a cassette-carrier, delved into the tending with as equal a pleasure in giving his attention as Megatron’s frame received from it. Where Megatron might have balked at having soothing oils massaged into his stretched mash by Starscream, Soundwave’s contentment in doing it offset the sense of vulnerability.

Starscream’s passion kept him on edge. Soundwave’s put him at ease.

He tipped his helm down, almost touching the points of Soundwave’s helm. “Can you show me?”

The dark screen tilted to one side as Soundwave looked up. “Affirmative.”

It seemed necessarily to shutter his optics when Soundwave raised his hand to Megatron’s cheek, the long plane of his arm resting across the commander’s shoulder. There was a tingle at the base of his helm as Soundwave reached for his mind, and then he felt the mech slice through familiar points in his firewalls. 

Megatron clutched the arm of the sofa with a gasping lurch, his fuel tank flipping and sloshing cold. He couldn’t orient himself, dizzy and nauseous, and it felt like his frame was expanding and splitting into nothingness. The sensations was all-consuming, a reality unto themselves, and he felt lost and still falling into darkness.

It lasted seconds at most before Soundwave aborted the connection, squeezing the carrier’s wrist to ground him again.

After a few deep ventilations, to calm the churning in his tank, Megatron onlined his optics. He shook his helm a little, shivering, and then gave Soundwave a wry smile. “Let’s not try that again.” 

By way of reassurance, he them pulled the other mech into his lap astride his thighs, resting his hands about slender hips. “I shall take your word that the sparkling is happy from however it is you make sense of _that_.”

Soundwave adjusted himself against the heated plates that curved out towards his own abdomen. It was natural to frame it in both hands, taking advantage of his new position. “Agreed.”

It was equally natural for Megatron to roll his hips upwards, sliding his hands down the thighs straddling him with easy, warm familiarity. He rested his helm back on the sofa, just enjoying the friction and building heat between their plates. He’d passed the point where his spike would extend, however stimulated he became, as his coding continued to devote his body’s resources to nurturing the existing life he carried.

Much as he’s enjoyed Megatron’s spike in the past, Soundwave had no issue with the change. Sliding his hands up the big mech’s chassis through the sensitive channels between armour plates, he extended a data cable and manoeuvred it behind and beneath him.

Megatron shifted in surprise at the sudden touch to his cover, then sat forward with a rumbled chuckle and pulled Soundwave more completely into his arms. There was no mouth to meet, no glossa to twine with, but he found dragging lips and teeth across the cables up Soundwave’s neck almost as satisfying as a kiss. 

His panel retracted, and Soundwave pressed the blunt side of the datacable against his valve. Megatron hummed approval, digging his hands along the backs of the mech’s thighs.

The console pinged harsh and loud. It repeated every few seconds – a priority communication.

Soundwave dismounted the larger mech and shifted out of view along the sofa. Megatron used the few seconds to throttle his engine and compose himself. Then, he said, “On screen.”

The Camian documentary winked out and was replaced with a view of Starscream’s head and shoulders. His expression was utterly serious, and he wasted no time getting to the point. “My apologies for disturbing you, Lord Megatron, but I thought you ought to be aware of the attack.”

Without needing Megatron’s consent, Soundwave remotely bifurcated the screen and began bringing up the relevant data as he located it on the Nemesis’ data channels. 

“What attack?” Megatron barked, paying no heed to the glyphs scrolling up one half of the screen.

Starscream glanced to the left – toward the comm. relay station on the bridge – before snapping his attention back. “Tigan was subject to a massive aerial bombardment some thirty minutes ago. The temporary medical facility was targeted as well as the weapon’s plant.”

The planetoid Tigan had been the closest Decepticon base to the front line in the Aeris system, where their forces had recently been brutalised by overwhelming firepower. The triage facility was a stop-gap whilst they recalled those fit to travel and stabalised the rest, defended by Tigan’s defence grid.

Slowly, one hand braced on the arm of the sofa, Megatron got to his pedes. This was not news he could receive sitting down. “The medical facility was an emergency triage site over fifty kilometres from the factory. We _declared_ it.”

Soundwave inclined his helm where he was sitting at the edge of the sofa. He was receiving an external transmission through Laserbeak for an external source, and spoke as he added the new file to the mainframe. “Single intelligence report submitted to Autobot Command indicated that the medical facilities disguised weapons stockpiled for an attack. Claim of injured being treated at the site: fabrication.”

Megatron continued to hold the arm rest. “How many casualties?” 

The Seeker’s wings rose and dipped as he folded his hands behind his back. “Initial reports estimate approximately six thousand, but we anticipate those numbers to rise. There were eight thousand, two hundred and thirty-seven wounded and medics recorded in the last report.”

Clenching his jaw, Megatron took a moment as those numbers sank in. Then, his top lip curling: “Get me a direct channel to Optimus Prime now.”

Starscream’s wings pitched up in a high, authoritative angle. He raised a single placating hand. “I’m already in contact with Ultra Magnus via the Interceptor’s comm. array.”

It was standard procedure to bounce signals through other ships to disguise an originating location. It meant, however, no video feeds for the sake of speed and encryption. There was no reason, as Megatron saw it, why he couldn’t speak to Optimus directly.

“That’s not good enough, _Commander_ ,” he growled with scathing emphasis.

Starscream’s optics narrowed fractionally. “Soundwave, your presence is required on the bridge. Ultra Magnus is citing Autobot _procedure_ at me and I do not have the time or inclination.”

Megatron took a snarling step towards the viewer. “Starscream-”

His Second gave him a deadpan look. “Everything is under control, my Lord, and we’ll keep you informed.” He opened his mouth as if to add something further but thought better of it, cutting off the connection instead.

Soundwave was already moving but hesitated at the threshold to the door, drawn back by Megatron’s simmering rage. He touched a hand to the Decepticon emblem on his chassis. “Apologies, Lord Megatron, but direct communication with Optimus: highly inadvisable.”

“That is _my_ decision to make.”

“Not under medical directive.” It was a bold statement to make, but delivered with all the frankness of certainty. As more information uploaded into his processor from the datanet, Soundwave took another step towards the doorway and pinged it to open. He really _did_ need to get to the command deck. “Soundwave: will return as soon as permissible and remain in contact if you have need.”

Mere seconds after the door had closed behind the mech’s back, Megatron stalked to his console. As emphatic as his Commanders’ assurances were, he was not so easily placated. He also had the impression that a significant factor behind his exclusion in running his own army was Breakdown’s order that he keep his systems calm and as relaxed as possible.

Megatron set a search algorithm for the Ark’s single public comm. frequency and stood waiting, his hands opening and closing into fists atop the console. He had mentally composed a blistering message to Optimus before the search abruptly stopped. A notice appeared that the console was no longer connected to the Nemesis’ comm.s 

He stared at it a moment, utterly incredulous, then slammed his fist into the screen with a roar. It shattered and the destruction felt good, the exertion felt incredible, and within a minute he’d smashed up the console beyond all use.

Taking a step back from the sparking ruin, Megatron took a steadying ventilation and tried to will away the tremors running through his frame. The sudden exertion had made the little twinges around his back explode into familiar cramping spasms. Like it often did, however, the pain helped him to focus. 

There was another console in his regular quarters. It would be foolish to attempt to make an outside connection again, and Soundwave would likely see a second attempt as cause for an intervention and have Breakdown summoned to try and placate him. He could at least monitor the feeds, though and not need to rely on contact with his officers to know what was going on.

\----

It had taken Jazz the better part of a day to find his way through the maze of crawlspaces in the Nemesis walls. 

There hadn’t been much chatter in the hallways on his way over, but he’d picked up enough to mull over. Heavy restrictions around the repair crew. No shore leave for the crew on the station and –surprisingly- no grumbling over the fact. If anything, the soldiers seemed to want to stay on the ship. Everyone was walking around armed and ready, on constant patrol. Definitely not the kind of situation Jazz wanted to go hunting in.

Once he’d located Megatron’s quarters, he’d hunkered down above the ventilation grate closest to the door and waited.

And waited.

In this area of his expertise, it wasn’t unheard of to lie in silent readiness for upwards of a day and a half, watching for a target to come to him. Jazz was mentally trained for it as much as he was physically, settling his systems to tick over low and slow for the sake of energy conservation, but remain in a state of stand-by readiness. If Megatron had finished a recharge cycle just before Jazz had arrived, then it could be up to three days before he settled for another one. War work kept a mech busy even when their ship was docked in for repair, and Jazz was perfectly content to wait for his target rather than search the ship. There was no set time he needed to leave by, short of the Nemesis departing. If the flagship left with him on it, it was only a matter of time before he was found and caught.

His exit strategies were all dependent on being attached to Kimia station. He could crawl back the way he’d come in and go out with one of the empty containers; or make a run for it and hide out in the station’s bowels with a reliably shady contact. If there was no urgent need to get off the station, he could wait until the Autobot destined for the Ark arrived and leave with Sidebar and an alibi in the shuttle docked and waiting for him. If he was in a bit of a hurry, the ship that Prowl had arranged to be left for him was fast and pre-set with jump coordinates.

Getting in had been straightforward, and getting out was doable. Now all he had to do was get a decent look at Megatron, gather what information he could about his physical shape, and remain undetected whilst he made his exit.

Finally the heavy doors opened but the lights didn’t automatically come on. From above, Jazz watched the distinctive helm, broad shoulders and thick chassis stalk into the room by the light from the hallway. He watched, listening to the rhythm of Megatron’s gait and reading the slant of his shoulders and the angle of his helm as he walked.

The doors closed when Megatron was six steps inside, and another four brought him just past the grate. Jazz could only just make out his backplates now, and was leaning forward for a better angle when Megatron stopped. And looked up.

\----

Jazz didn’t make a sound as the ground was literally taken from under him when Megatron punched through the ceiling. They fought in the dark, fast and twisting in just the lights of their optics. Jazz made sure to stay right on top of the big frame. Megatron’s reach on his own back was limited, and Jazz could claw and stab with the serrated blade whilst scrambling about.

The Autobot was thrown into the bulkhead, managed to kick off and launch back. 

Jazz wedged his foot against the big mech’s knee, his other leg hooking around the powerful hip. The blade went into Megatron’s side so easily that he stalled, optics widening in shock at the complete lack of armour and then at the pained shout the stab drew. Then Megatron’s hand was around his helm, and holding onto the hilt of the knife was priority.

They ended up in a stale-mate, of sorts. Megatron could crush his helm instantly, and Jazz could pull that blade around and gut him. Megatron would survive, but…

“Call for help and I’ll rip you open,” Jazz hissed, already tensing to do it.

“Lights,” Megatron snarled, his expression quickly revealed to be a twisted mask of rage and pain. His optics were fixed on the Autobot’s visor.

Jazz clenched his jaw and held firm straddling the mech’s side, giving him a quick once-over behind his visor. It was only to confirm what he’d felt – the softness, the well-defined swell of a gravid mech.

“If that really is a sparkling in there,” he muttered between gritted dente, “then you’d better be letting go of my face.”

Megatron growled, motionless, but then the pressure of his hand lessened some. Not releasing him, but indicating that he wasn’t going to kill him right then. His expression conveyed perfectly how much he wanted to, though.

Jazz’s grip on the knife was secure despite the welling fluid. He shifted his thumb across the hilt and felt the ragged edge of pliant mesh. Another inch and the digit would be inside the mech’s body. He knew anatomy and the length of the blade, and was certain that the tip had breached the gestation chamber

Literally sat on Megatron’s frame, Jazz could feel the manufacturing heat coming from his core and the power in the taut hydraulics locked between his thighs. There was pain, horror and a tiny thread of fear in the Decepticon’s field. Carrier coding. It prioritised the sparkling over everything else.

Jazz bit his glossa and tightened his grip on the knife, keeping it steady. “Alright. So talk.”

Megatron had yet to look away, staring into his visor as if eventually he would be able to burn through it. “What is there to say?” he replied tightly, clearly exerting an iron will to keep his voice level. “These things happen.”

“No, not to you.” Jazz’s lip curled in disgust. “Not to Decepticon leaders in a time of war.”

Something passed across Megatron’s optics and was echoed in his field. A tremor and a single heavy ventilation suggested that Jazz had struck a nerve. The Decepticon looked away towards the floor. “And yet.”

“Yeah,” Jazz affirmed quietly, watching the play of emotions with a grim sort of fascination. 

The big mech swayed a little on his pedes, shutter-blinking and raising his hand to his side. “I have to sit,” he bit out quietly as another shudder ran through his frame. “Unless you want me to fall on you.”

Jazz shook his head without hesitation. Megatron could reach for a weapon, and he was not so affected by the fact that his enemy was carrying to risk it. “You can use the wall.” 

Megatron’s mouth flattened into a thin line but he said nothing. Slowly, vents rasping, he moved to the bulkhead adjacent to the door and braced his shoulder into it. With the big mech against the wall, Jazz felt safe easing himself down from his perch on the Decepticon’s hip. He kept a solid grip on the knife, which was his sole means of control right now.

Standing astride the trail of spattered energon, Jazz was finally able to get a good look at Megatron. His armour was clean and structurally unchanged with the exception of his midrift, where panels had been removed to allow for the mass of the sparkling. His exposed mesh was dark and healthy, and he was obviously in good shape with the exception of numerous fresh lacerations and the impaled blade Jazz had inflicted. 

This hadn’t even registered on what he might have expected to find, and Jazz was at a loss for what to do with it. For now, he was in control of the situation. He literally had a handle on Megatron, though he was still lethally dangerous.

No sounds of alarms outside, no buzz of active comm. channels. Jazz was quite confident that Megatron’s processor was too locked down in panicked carrier protocols to contact anyone for help. His chassis was visibly stress-flexing and the fist he had pressed against the wall was shaking violently. 

Jazz stared openly at the bump the blade had entered from a high angle, trying to estimate how far into a carriage it looked. It varied from frametype to frametype, but he guessed conception must have been at the very start of the war.

“So. This is the huge secret in Decepticon Command.”

Megatron didn’t answer straight away, then gave a clipped, “Yes.”

“Hn.” Jazz shook his helm, the corner of his mouth lifting in a nasty little smile. “We knew something was up, but we’d never could have guessed…”

It occurred to him just how pivotal this moment was. He had the enemy leader completely at his mercy, and so far no one was any the wiser. Megatron could be killed right now, delivering a crippling blow to the Decepticons, and no one would need to know that Jazz was here.

Optimus had sent him to gather intelligence. What he’d ended up with was a monumental opportunity.

He needed to think through his options, and the longer he stalled, the more opportunity Megatron had to find the will to throw caution to the wind and fight back.

“Y’know, carrying frames hold an extra 40% energon in their lines,” Jazz said conversationally, twitching the knife a bare millimetre in the wound. It made Megatron hiss, optics darkening. “Lotta pressure. Even if you did call for help, you’d leak out before anyone got here.”

“I am not an idiot.” Megatron continued to stare straight ahead, as if concentrating on just staying upright. 

Jazz nodded a little. “No, you’re not. But just to be clear: I have absolutely no problem with gutting you, sparkling or no.”

Megatron turned his helm enough to fix a single optic on the mech. “Is that what you’re going to do?”

The intensity of that look, the stillness of it, put a feeling like an electrical shock through Jazz’s core. It would be so easy to do it. Damnably easy, and an opportunity no one was every likely to get again. But killing a carrier in cold blood wasn’t a typical assassination, and Jazz doubted that Optimus would ever be able to tolerate the knowledge that his friend-turned-enemy had been both compliant and heavy with a sparkling when he died. 

Cybertron was a wasteland. A hundred million civilians were already dead. 

Prime would get over it.

“Here for intelligence, but I’m thinking… how short this war’s gonna get with you gone.” Jazz took a step forward, raising his elbow to exert more pressure on the knife.

“It’s Optimus’s!”

The blurted confession pulled Jazz up short out of pure shock. It transformed to rage as soon as the implications sunk in, however, and the smaller mech bared his dente. The blade tore another inch as he leaned in. “You lying heap of-”

“ _Orion’s_ , Unmaker take you!” Megatron went on with an expression bordering on anguish. Both hands had come to his middle now, one blocking the path of the knife. 

Biting the side of his glossa, Jazz tried to convince himself it was a lie. A desperate move by a desperate mech. “I’m supposed to believe that?” 

“Look at me!” Megatron snarled, optics wide and bleaching grey at the edges. “This was conceived before the Council, before the _war_.”

Jazz swore under his breath and tried to think. Fluid was running down his arm and dripping from his elbow. This was getting complicated. He _hated_ complicated.

It wasn’t just about killing an unarmed carrier, now; it was killing the potential offspring of a Prime. If it turned out to be true, Jazz would be lucky if he and everyone he knew were just _killed_ in reparation to Primus himself. 

At the very least it needed confirming or denying. Jazz glanced to the door, then about the living area demonstrably. “Wouldn’t happen to have anything as handy as a paternity readout around here, would you?”

Either out of system shock or relief that Jazz was hesitating, Megatron’s mouth twitched upwards. “Unfortunately not.”

Jazz nodded, expecting as much, and gave the door another considering look. This deck was parallel with the repairs taking place further along the ship – likely one of the reasons why Megatron had been moved. No way to come out in the direction he’d been intending to. The Nemesis schematics showed an emergency escape hatch nearby on this level, he recalled.

He looked Megatron over again, considering.

Assassination was out. If he left Megatron to escape he’d have the whole of the nemesis on his aft before he go the shuttle.

If he was going to get chased, Jazz decided, it may as well be for something truly outlandish.

“Come on, now,” Jazz said, putting his free hand on Megatron’s arm so as to steer him.

“Where?” Megatron demanded, though turned as directed with the guidance of the knife and Jazz’s hand.

It was a simple matter of sending a transmission to his escape shuttle to engage its manoeuvring thrusters and converge on that point. Risky, and there’d be a zero-atmosphere step between ships with a hostage to negotiate, but doable.

“The airlock down the hall,” Jazz said, his expression setting into one of cool determination now that the decision had been made. “You’re getting us out of here.”

Megatron was still a moment, hands fisting against his leaking gut. Then he turned on Jazz with a dangerous kind of resolve. Carrier coding was getting beaten back by the wealth of combat experience the larger mech possessed – and Jazz had to react before the tide could fully turn.

Energon sprayed from the wound when he pulled the knife out, lashing glowing arc across the deck. Jazz switched the weapon to his other hand whilst Megatron was still reeling, then shoved his already-slick fingers into the wound. It staunched the leaks, and gave him a phenomenal grip on the mech.

Megatron clutched at the wall to stay upright, collapsing sideways into the bulkhead and almost falling to his knees. His optics were blown wide and bleached in shock and agony, unable to focus on the hand impaling him. Coding screamed threat so close to the sparkling, throttling his fighting instincts into a distance echo. The shock of it numbed his processor, emphasizing stillness. Compliance. 

“Walk,” Jazz snapped with all the authority his vocaliser could project, striking before the shock and pain subsided.

Megatron obeyed in a halting stagger, one hand braced against the wall and the other against his middle. They got out of the Commander’s quarters and into the hallway. Jazz urged him on as fast as the mech could move, acutely aware that the changes of discovery rose with every passing second.

He could feel Megatron’s systems overheating with stress; feel the internal vibrations and clenching shudders. Beneath his fingers, he was distinctly aware of the pliant pleats of the gestation chamber and the hard mass of the sparkling on the other side.

It wasn’t the nastiest stunt he’d ever pulled, but it ranked pretty high.

Midway down the hallway to the airlock, Megatron’s slow steps ground to a halt again. Something in his chassis was whining, and he smelt like burning oil. He glared weakly at the Autobot steering him by his internals. “Get off of me.”

Jazz rotated his hand an inch, drawing a high moan from the carrier. He nodded to the oily liqud sliding down his forearm. “That doesn’t look like just energon,” Jazz said when the sounds of pain has subsided to a static-filled wheeze. “Looks amniotic. Now: get moving.”

Another full-frame rattle that ended in Megatron clutching a hand to the sparkling, then forcing himself on again. They reached the airlock scant minutes later, leaving trail of energon down the side of the corridor. Megatron seized the frame with both hands, struggling to think beyond pain and fear. His ventilations were hard and juddering. Just being on his pedes was a labour he could scarcely tolerate.

Jazz checked the shuttle’s approach. It was well on the move, now, closing in on the Nemesis. He checked the hallway behind them, counting down the seconds. “Open the hatch.”

Megatron hung his head. Energon and lubricants dripped from his mouth. “No,” he rasped.

“Sure about that?” Jazz’s mouth twisted in grim warning, and just that made the carrier brace with shuttered optics. “I can feel your bitlet, Megatron. Bet if I pulled real hard, I could show it to you.”

“Enough!”

Megatron slammed his hand on the access panel, wrenched it open and grabbed the handle of the manual release. In profile, one optics twitched into focus on the Autobot. “You couldn’t.”

“Open the door and we won’t find out.”

Jazz didn’t let him stall going into the airlock, forcing him through the door and locking it shut behind them. An alarm began to sound on the other side of the bulkhead and a light flashed urgently overhead. Through the small window, they watched the shuttle pivot and glide alongside. The side hatch cracked open with a remote command.

Another lever, the hissing pull of atmosphere venting, and then Jazz was taking them across a meter of empty space. The shuttle door closed as soon as they were inside and veered away before they’d readjusted to the artificial gravity. Prowl had set the autopilot to weave beneath Kimia and put the station in between it and the Nemesis before making a run for the edge of the ‘bridge suppression field.

Megatron’s knees were ready to buckle but Jazz wouldn’t let him drop, forcing him upright against the wall. 

\-----

“Lord Megatron’s comm.s: disabled,” Soundwave confirmed after the eleventh failed attempt. He moved to the next console over and slammed a datacable into the side, jacking in directly. 

“Kimia’s security vessels have been alerted. They’re holding fire.”

“Medical teams standing by.”

“Launch doors open.”

The command deck was a flurry of intense focus. No one was panicking, too well versed in war now to fall apart when the situation became urgent. Soundwave was aware that everyone felt this emergency was singularly different, however. 

\----

Starscream took to the launch bay already in jet mode, having torn through the corridors of the Nemesis and gathered his armada in his wake. They exploded out of the doors before they’d fully opened, pouring out from the top of the ship in a silver wave. 

The shuttle had a head start on them, but it wasn’t enough. Starscream tore after it with his engines at full capacity, burning towards the red. He wasn’t a Seeker: he was the Seeker, and reached the small craft a full minute before the rest of the fliers would.

Twisting to land in bipedal mode, Starscream landed heavily on the roof of the shuttle and began tearing at the top hatch. :: Get him out of there!::

From the Nemesis, Soundwave’s voice came immediate and curt. ::Negative.::

They were still within the anti-bridge field, Starscream realised with a snarl. He set his blaster onto a low-level beam and bore it down on the hatch, using the weapon as a cutting tool. Eradicons began to appear around him, latching onto the shuttle on all sides and alternating between tearing and cutting at the hull.

\----

Megatron and Jazz stood at the back of the shuttle, listening to the cacophony of destruction battering in on all sides. The Decepticon had been forced to lean completely against the wall, fluid loss and system shock making him weak and dizzy, but he continued to watch and wait. And hope. 

Jazz kept the blade of his hand buried in his side, steady as any surgeon’s.

Then, just as there was the hiss of a pressure seal breaking overhead, an alarm went off from the console.

Jazz took a firm grip of his elbow. “Activate groundbridge.”

Megatron jerked at the command with a burst of energy, planting his pedes firmly against the deck. The green vortex appeared instantly and he knew without a doubt that Starscream would not get to him if they went through.

Taking this development into account, he gambled.

Jazz had just been about to order him foreward when Megatron side-barged him into the wall, throwing his whole weight into the mech in hopes of knocking him unconscious. The movement tore the wound open and dislodged Jazz’s hand, but he didn’t go down. The Autobot slid into the space between his hip and knee like oil, taking a dent from the wall but not a crush. 

Pedes sliding in the torrent of fluids now gushing from the Decepticon, Jazz jammed his hand into the small of the mech’s back. There was a neural cluster that would make him jerk forward into the groundbridge. He’d not done it on a carrying mech before.

It was disastrous. 

Megatron’s already hyper-sensitive neural net received the strike like an electric shock, jolting the hand he’d clamped to his side and letting the wound pour out unhindered. His optics flashed and smoke instantly curled out of his vents, his backstrut jerking in a serious of juddering contractions. It toppled him forward just enough for Jazz to shove him bodily through the vortex.

\----

::Groundbridge detected.::

 _Not theirs._ Starscream’s tank lurched. He kicked off the shuttle and raised his missiles to the cockpit. Through the window he could see the tell-tale green glow for a few seconds before it blinked out.

::Lifesigns?::

::None.::

He fired, taking out the upper half of the shuttle and giving him enough room to drop inside. There were red flashing lights warning of critical failure, but the console display was still on. Starscream barked the groundbridge coordinates on the screen to Soundwave and then turned straight into the ‘bridge that opened behind him.

\----

“Primus-fragging-scrap…”

Megatron was barely conscious, leaning hard on Jazz inside the second shuttle that had been waiting for them. His mesh had turned ashy, optics dark around pinpricks of red, and he was trembling so hard his armour rattled.

Jazz strained to hold him up, drenched down one side in energon mixed with every other fluid a frame needed. If he hadn’t gotten Megatron’s arm across his shoulders, there’d be no hope of dragging him along. 

They were close enough now for direct communication with the Ark, and Jazz directed a text burst to Ratchet and Optimus alone.

::Medical emergency. I’ve got Megatron. Clear _everyone_ out. Level five quarantine. Get us out of here.::

The second bridge opened from the Ark’s end almost at their pedes. With Megatron shutting down across his backstrut, Jazz staggered forward with a shout and let them topple into the vortex.

As soon as the groundbridge was closed, the shuttle exploded.

\----

Starscream floated amongst the charred and shattered debris, staring at the epicentre of the destruction in shock.

There were faint readings of recent groundbridge activity. 

“They ‘bridged to another shuttle and then jumped again.” Starscream’s hands curled into fists. ::We lost him.::

On the Nemesis, Soundwave’s screen flashed dark blue in shock. In the millisecond it took to recover himself, he found that he’d gripped the head of the throne in the middle of the room.

There was an agonising silence on the command deck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sparkling is fine. There will be no dead sparklings in this fic.
> 
> I hope this was worth the wait and all that build up!


	30. Inception

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who left a comment on the last chapter. I didn't want to leave folk waiting too long, and I hope you enjoy this chapter even if it did take on a mind of its own.

\----

_Then_

\----

Megatronus was buffing the last smears of wax from his gauntlets when his door sounded with a crisp double-knock. There were few chimes in the Kaon residential towers, just as there were very few windows, and the gladiator turned revolutionary took great pleasure in the small rectangle of glass in his room and that distinctive knock. He rose from the berth and crossed his single-room dwelling in six strides, grasping the heavy door handle and rolling it sideways.

Orion Pax, too clean and bright for the corridor, was there when he looked down. 

“You came,” Megatronus observed with an expression of pleasant surprise, already stepping back to welcome the mech inside. “I was going to get the next transport up, as I said I would.”

“I know you have to leave early tomorrow to get to Tarn in time,” Orion replied, smiling as he took in the open tin of wax and discarded polishing cloth on the berth. “And it can be a bit of a trek to Iacon in peak traffic.”

Megatronus finished locking the door and stepped in close behind Orion, whose finials barely reached his shoulders. He skimmed his hands down the slender arms, a whisper of pitted metal across glossy finish. “As it happens, a Decepticon shuttleformer has volunteered to transport me to the rally, and the ones after. I could have left when I desired.”

He leaned down and mouthed the tip of one of those delicately shapes points, eliciting a low-level electrical hum and a shiver from Orion. It had been several days since they’d last seen each other, though they’d kept in daily contact over comm.s. 

The archivist ducked away and turned to face Megatronus, resting both hands on the solid block of his chest. His optics narrowed in concern. “Six rallies? Don’t you think you’re overstretching yourself?”

Megatronus straightened with a heavy exvent, dissipating some of the heat that Orion usually invoked in him. Even though they’d been lovers for over a year, it still felt new and intense. Utterly addictive. 

A little more composed, he curled his hands about Orion’s shoulders, thumbing the bases of his stacks. “I want the people to know that when I face the Council in four days that I speak for them,” he murmured. “That it is their voice I take with me.”

“They will know, as definitely as the Council shall.”

Orion lay his hand over the symbol that Megatronus had emblazoned himself with. The angular purple face was a sign of unity between those he represented – the downtrodden and caste-locked who now demanded choice in their lives and freedom in their expression. Haulers who wanted to be musicians. Refuse workers who wanted to be explorers. Fabricators who wanted to be scientists. 

The cause for equality and for the corrupt ruling elite to be ousted was at the fore of Megatronus’s every waking moment, now. Positioned over his very spark, there was no mistaking his commitment. 

Hard as the gladiator had fought, in every respect, Orion was highly aware that he was just one mech. A fact that Megatronus often neglected to remember. It was Orion who had convinced him to withdraw from the gladiatorial arena to focus completely on the Decepticon campaign six months ago, when writing, speeches and visits had cut so hard into recharge and training that he was starting to flag in combat. Still a champion, but the wounds were more severe more regularly, and his auto-repair was shot from the sustained stress and weeks of insufficient recharge. 

The sponsors, and the crowds themselves, had been trying to get their champion back in recent months. It would bring in money and re-establish the sense of Megatronus’s roots, but it would also potentially alienate the few upper caste supporters he had won over with Orion’s contacts. Not to mention put him at significant risk of death and injury.

But then, Megatronus was never one to take the easy route to anything. If he felt that the benefits outweighed the cost, whatever the overall risk, he would seize every opportunity. 

Orion arched a brow up at the taller mech. “Please tell me you haven’t taken a match as well.”

Megatronus shook his helm. “None.” 

The Enforcers had expanded their methods beyond the usual brutal arrest attempts and back-alley bribes. Soundwave had found connections between satellite government accounts and some of the newest gladiators that had descended upon Kaon with sights set on taking Megatronus’ title as Champion. They were heavy labour frames with modifications and armaments far beyond their means, and with conspicuously anonymous sponsors. It would be preferable for Megatronus to be killed in the gladiatorial arena rather than the political one.

With the personal meeting with the Council so close, a meeting which had been hard-won through negotiation, petition, bribery and meticulous manipulation of legislation, Megatronus refused to take the chance.

“Assassination attempts will be more likely than ever,” he went on, drawing Orion in close to his chassis. It was plain how his partner worried, and Megatronus appreciated how little he actually said it. He nuzzled the top of Orion’s helm. “They are afraid of me. Of the change I will bring.”

Orion wrapped his arms around the wide chassis as far as he could reach, fingers sliding into well-known grooves and ridges that had turned into familiar handholds. It suddenly felt like it had been a very long time since they’d last been close.

“I’ve missed you.” He curled his fingers, pressing hard into the narrow spaces between armour plates to drag across the mesh beneath. A kiss to the gladiator’s central seam and then Orion looked up, optics bright with desire and an edge of mischief. “ _Very_ much.”

Megatronus grinned, optics smouldering with charge and fire. Then all of his anticipation and want was delivered into Orion’s frame through mouth and hands. He clutched at the mech’s backstrut and slim arms, curving his fingers up and over every plate and seam, nipping and sucking at his neck cables. Orion’s hands were pulling at his panel, and he released his spike with a groan.

Orion had been an ongoing surprise of the most glorious kind. The archivist was undaunted by the difference in size between their frames, and found a lot of charge in measuring his partner’s significant girth and strength. It was not a fetish that Megatronus particularly shared, but the results were highly enjoyable.

He released Orion to let him walk backwards towards the berth, following the hands that twisted and pulled at his spike. The skilled contact finally broke when Orion got up onto the scantly-padded recharge slab. Megatronus watched as the shapely mech rolled onto his back and arranged himself with his helm resting over the edge - at an ideal height to his pelvis. 

It was far from the first time they’d done this, but the display still excited Megatronus like the best kind of novelty. Feeling Orion’s hands holding his hips to measure his thrusts and pull him deeper; the sight of the pale throat distending when he swallowed; the way his hips rolled and bent legs twitched when the gladiator finally gripped his helm and rutted his mouth to overload.

When Megatronus managed to reset his optics, Orion was palming his own spike. Megatronus held his hips and pushed him back fully onto the berth, disturbing the mech’s rhythm and eliciting a curious azure look. They were still upside to one another, and the brief kiss was strange and a little awkward. It was reprieve enough for Megatronus to get his knees working enough again to climb up onto the berth with his partner.

Straddling the smaller mech, he reached down and covered Orion’s hand with his own before sinking down. Orion threw his helm back with a moan, hips rising as his back arched and his mouth fell open. Megatronus spread his knees as wide as possible and leant forward onto his elbows, kissing the diamond-shaped chevron at the crest of the mech’s helm.

“Oh Primus, you feel good,” Orion groaned, low and quiet into the mech’s throat.

Megatronus made a low sound of agreement, hissing when the angle of long thrusts changed just enough to drag across a different set of neural clusters. His valve was already sensitive from his first overload, and Orion’s steady rhythm was making his backplates tingle.

He leaned back and rocked into each thrust, taking Orion’s spike deeper and harder. His ventilations came in quick rasps, optics shuttered and face taut. Overload caught him by surprise, erupting suddenly throughout his frame and leaving him loose and quivering. Orion slammed up twice more before following with a shout, shuddering as his reservoir emptied of transfluid and finally collapsing back on the berth gasping for breath. 

Afterwards, curled together in the dark, Megatronus kissed the same finial that he’d sucked before.

“You’ll be with me when I see the Council, won’t you.” It was a statement. They’d discussed it before, but some things warranted repeating.

Orion smiled, rolling over and framing the bigger mech’s face in his hands. “Yes. I will have your back, and your front, too, if needed.”

Megatronus’s optics were downcast, pensive. “I would never have come so far without you. Your connections, your knowledge and skills have allowed me to be heard by thousands previously unreachable.”

A kiss laid to the heavy prow of a miner’s helmet. “You would have found a way.”

Thinking back to those early days in the Iacon Hall of Records made Orion smile: awkward silences over the data consoles and tentative suggestions for search algorithms that had gradually led to spirited and invigorating discussions lasting long after his shifts ended. Using his ID to download files for Megatronus to take away, and looking forward to discussing his reading the next day. Sporadic comm. bursts in the night cycle. There had sometimes been poetry.

A question: if Orion was sure about courting a mech like him.

Megatronus’s thoughts had also turned inward; looking back a reprieve from so much time spent looking forward.

Teaching basic self-defence when Orion said he would like to visit his friend in Kaon, deep in the belly of the Halls where the server technicians used to live. The first time they coupled, impulsive and forbidden in the prep room beneath the Arena. Lying on the roof of Orion’s residential block in shock at the stars, never having imagined they could be so bright. So clear.

A question: after the Council, when the first critical battle was won, could they take something for themselves. Bond. 

Megatronus shuttered his optics and just held on, resting and content. “We will change the world together,” he murmured with soft, fierce pride.

Orion tucked his helm beneath the mech’s jaw, settling towards recharge. After Megatronus left at dawn, they wouldn’t see each other until they faced the Council.

“Together,” he affirmed, and didn’t mind that he wasn’t heard.

\----  
 _Now_  
\----

Jazz’s legs buckled as soon as they were through the spacebridge and on the distinctive orange deck of the Ark. Megatron slumped like a dead thing across his back, effectively pinning him until one of the welcome party pulled him off. 

Optimus and Ratchet had brought Prowl to the storage room, five floors above the holding cells and one below the Medbay. They’d been on stand-by since Jazz arrived on Kimia, and had raced down when his message came through. Clipped as it was, they hadn’t known what to expect, but had assumed an injured Autobot and a supremely agitated Decepticon Commander.

When the light of the spacebridge winked out, Optimus lowered his rifle. Then dropped it completely.

Ratchet’s shock passed first, and he surged forward in full medic-mode with Optimus on his heels. The Prime got on his knees next to Jazz to roll Megatron back off of him, automatically gripping him by chassis and hip to keep him steady in his lap. His arm and hand were instantly drenched by the tear in one side of the carrier’s abdomen. The Decepticon’s optics were dark and his frame turning ashen at his extremities.

Prowl’s heaved Jazz upright by the arm and pulled him clear to the other side of the room. He comm.ed Ironhide to stand-down outside and clear the route to the Medbay while Jazz watched the bigger mechs get to work.

Optimus suddenly looked very much like Orion, and it was natural to hold Megatron close to his chassis to better expose the wound to Ratchet. He couldn’t bring his eyes from the full swell of his plates. The medic was administering a wealth of injections, and had already plugged in a diagnostic cable from his wrist.

A wet feeling spread across Optimus’s legs beneath Megatron. He leaned sideways to see. There was a slow trickle of energon on the backs of the carrier’s thighs, seeping out from around his closed panel. 

“Ratchet?” he croaked, quiet and stunningly overwhelmed.

Ratchet was painfully silent as he worked, physically pressing the torn pieces of mesh together with one hand whilst spraying a clogging foam in with the other. It would block up the wound and stifle the leaking, but it was lightyears from a repair. 

“He needs a direct infusion _now_ ,” Ratchet snapped, already prying open the metal over a main energon line in Megatron’s neck. “Optimus?”

The Prime nodded, already offering his arm even as he adjusted Megatron’s weight against his chassis. “Yes, of course.”

He faintly felt the sharp penetration of a needle in his arm, and his fuel systems began to ping of a gradual loss as energon was drawn from his systems into the other mech’s. Likely it would be out on the decking in a few minutes, but minutes were precious now.

Once the transfusion was set, Ratchet returned his attention to the wound obscured by hardening foam. The energon was mostly blocked inside, now, but there were still leaks escaping from the edges of the expanding patch from the sheer pressure of so many damaged lines. He spoke without looking up from his patient. “Anything else I should know about?” His tone was curt and bitterly flat.

Jazz knew perfectly well who the question was directed to, and why. Viruses, poison, nanoscopic scraplets – the Operative could have administered almost anything to bring Megatron down. “Nothing that’s not already obvious, Ratch’,” he said.

Across his comm.s, however, he added, _::He said it was Optimus’s, from before he became Prime.::_

Prowl seized Jazz’s arm, aware of the transmission and mortified that his agent was obfuscating information at a time like this. “Repeat that out loud, _lieutenant_.”

Jazz gave him a measured look before glancing to Ratchet. The medic was too preoccupied to notice, and didn’t seem to have been effected by the news. Jazz grit his dente. “He said… Megatron claimed Prime’s the sire, but it could just as well have been a tactic to get me to let him go.”

Optimus jerked but continued holding the injured mech, optics wide above the battle mask that had been in place since Megatron appeared. He stared at the swell of his stomach again, horrified and stunned in equal measure. He wanted to touch as much as he wanted to drop Megatron to the ground and bolt. 

Ratchet began to get to his feet, which startled him out of his reverie. 

“Scope’s prepping Surgery. We can’t wait for a gurney,” Ratchet said, moving in to slide his hands beneath Megatron from the other side. He felt between armour plates for any distended mesh, grimacing when he found multiple stiff hot spots indicative of internal leaking. “Scrap.”

“Ratchet?”

He ignored Optimus’s question, and resolved to deal with the sick unease that had flooded the Prime’s field _later_. For now, Ratchet braced his hand over the patch job in the carrier’s side and stabilized the sparkling inside with steady pressure. “We’ll move him together. Keep him steady. If the sparkling moves the wrong way, it’s going to split him open.” 

Optimus’s vocaliser clicked before he spoke again. “Okay.” 

Ratchet planted a foot beneath him, preparing to stand, and waited for Optimus to do the same. When they were both ready, he gave the nod. “Alright, fast now.”


	31. Fallout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Techno-medical fudgery, an OC you won't see too much of, and some quality time with Optimus.  
> \----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They got to the Medbay as if they’d rehearsed it, though Optimus’s hydraulics had begun to burn from the stooping position he’d had to carry Megatron in to equal Ratchet’s height. During transit, the Decepticon’s head had tipped into his chassis. The severe lines of his face had softened with unconsciousness, and he looked familiar in the way that made Optimus’s spark ache.

There was a side entrance behind Ratchet’s office that led straight into the surgical ward; ideal for emergencies, and for getting patients into the Medbay without passing the rest of its populous. Scope was waiting inside the door, her treads twitching quietly behind her shoulders.

Initially an artillery support vehicle, Scope had progressed to field medic out of battlefield necessity six months ago. She’d joined the Ark soon after for further training as an apprentice to Ratchet with view to redeploying her as part of a larger campaign. Ratchet would have preferred someone with more experience for a case like this, but her larger frame and unflappable temperament made her acceptable for Megatron. She’d also happened to be on shift and could be trusted to keep her mouth shut, so Ratchet wasn’t inclined to lose time waiting for someone else to get out of berth.

There was a transfusion kit and pressurised tank of energon ready on a side trolley. Seeing the line running between Optimus and the unconscious Decepticon, Scope stepped around the berth with a directing wave.

“Here, Sir,” she murmured, already pinching the line where it pierced his arm. By the time Optimus and Ratchet had set Megatron on the berth, she’d pulled the line and neatly slotted it into the feed from the tank. 

“Gonna need to repair the chamber before we flush and start sealing,” Ratchet said with vacant optics. His mind was on his hands, diagnosing what he could feel around the wound. Slight temperature variations and pressure resistance gave vital information about how many leaks there were to battle without breaching the hardened foam holding back the tide.

Scope connected to the diagnostic scanners the berth was running as her hands moved about the mech’s frame. “Haemorrhage pools in sacral and thoracolumbar inter-illis.”

“I know. No distension yet.” 

Ratchet took a thin rod from the instrument tray and pushed it through one of the splits in the foam, manoeuvring by feel, sensors and experience to the largest of the leaking lines. Probing for the tattered edge, he thumbed on the grasping tip and pressed the hose closed. Eight staples into the neighbouring mesh and a flash of heat reduced the gush to a trickle. One down.

“Side-roll?”

Ratchet twitched his helm in the negative, searching for the next major line. “The chamber’s too unstable. I’m more concerned about a breach than drowning his internals in fuel.”

“I can’t see any sign of explosive ordinance in his weapon systems.” A warning ping from the fuel tank made Scope frown. She glanced back at the display to confirm the readings before going back to prying at Megatron’s armour. “Thirty percent through the tank already. Scrap, where’s it going?”

“Probably lost more than that before we got him.”

“We can stall all his pumps with an inhibitor,” she suggested, finally succeeding in removing a section of pelvic armour. “Reduce the pressure.”

A spurt of energon escape alongside the rod and sprayed up Ratchet’s arm. “Any earlier in the carriage I’d agree, but he’s too gravid. The pressure flow is moving waste on from the manufacturing plant. Stop the flow, the waste sits and poisons them both.”

Scope grimaced and moved on to Megatron’s other side, having to lean across the solid curve of his abdomen to work at the plates. She was quick with the wrench, her motions mechanical and powerful. Whilst cranking, she threw a quick scan on the fluid pooling between his thighs. “Only trace amniotic contamination in valve effusion.”

“Good. I got enough of the sealant on the tank to slow it down. It could still burst, though, so get a life-support pod ready as soon as you’re done stripping armour.”

“Primus…”

Ratchet’s helm snapped up with a brief expression of surprise and Scope looked suddenly sick. Both medics had completely forgotten that Optimus was still there.

The red and blue mech stood exactly where Scope had left him and showed classic signs of shock. His optics were blown bright and narrowed with nauseous concern, frame stiff and smeared with energon.

“Get him out,” Ratchet snapped, getting back to work.

Scope shutter-blinked but stepped back from the table. She hesitated before taking the Prime by the elbow. Gently but firmly, she steered him away from the sight on the berth and towards the door.

“We’ll keep you informed on his condition, Sir,” she said at the threshold. “Try to get some fuel.” With a quick glance down his front, she added, “And a shower.”

“ _Scope_!”

“Sir!”

***

The door shut with a ringing kind of finality even though it was not a design that could slam. It rattled like one, though, and Optimus stood staring at where Scope had been but was now blank metal.

On the other side: Megatron.

A red light came on above the frame. Indicator light, he distantly acknowledged. Sterile field. They’d begun to operate.

Optimus clenched his hands into fists until they creaked, feeling his wrists twitch with trembles he’d been unaware of. There was wet between his fingers. Suddenly, like a blast to the face, he became aware of the _smell_ – burning, acrid and starting to become far too familiar to him on the battlefield.

His front was soaked a cocktail of energon and general mech fluid, streaky and dark across his bright paint job and already thickening in his seams. It was far from the first time he’d had Megatron’s energon on him. They’d fought in close quarters multiple times in recent months; and before the Senate –before everything changed- he’d met his gladiator friend and lover are matches when his frame was still hot and teeming with violence.

Megatron had never bled on him whilst so still, though. Deathly still.

Optimus cycled a hard vent and pressed the space between his optics, then grit his dente when he realised he’d smeared the mess across his face.

A shower, he remembered. There was a decontamination room close to the medical bay. Whilst the Ark was in transit in space, it was almost guaranteed to be empty.

The room was brightly lit and utterly functional, with no privacy partitions between the thirty cleanser spigots set into the ceiling. Optimus gravitated towards the far end of the room and stood with his back to the corner. The steam did nothing to hide the fluids gradually sluicing down from his frame and winding across the grated floor to the long drain.

Megatron with a sparkling. It felt impossible. He could barely conceive of it, and yet he had held the mech and seen it. Felt the hardness of another body beneath the more pliant mesh where the carrier’s armour had been loosened and removed. 

When they’d been together, which felt simultaneously yesterday and a lifetime of destruction ago, they’d never spoken about sparklings. He’d assumed the gladiator was incapable as a consequence of his life. It was a non-starter, and they’d had their sights set on global revolution. The notion of bringing another life into an acutely unjust world seemed cruel. 

Not that any of that mattered now. Cybertron was being torn apart in the biggest civil war of their species, reaching out into the galaxy as both sides sought resources and territory. Hundreds of thousands of civilians and soldiers alike died every day. Megatron had shunned every attempt to negotiate a peace, even a ceasefire, and the analysists anticipated that the war was unlikely to end any time soon.

Was it his?

Optimus pooled the cleanser in his hands and scrubbed at his face. 

_Did Megatron knowingly carry their sparkling?_

He pressed his temples, his optical covers, places where pressure hurt, in an attempt to force his mind from the awful question.

It was possible. Megatron was well gravid, even to his inexperienced eye, and he would have to have quickly turned to someone new after their split at the Senate if the sire was someone else. 

The thought sent a burning sensation up his throat, and it was too easy to wonder at Megatron hunched over his elegance Second in Commander or exotically mysterious Third. The majority of his army were heavy-labour builds, like him. He could just as easily have gone back to what was familiar.

Optimus clenched his fists with a growl, chastising himself. Megatron was not his partner, and had not been since he turned his back on non-violent solutions and set about murder and destruction. He should not care if he’d taken a dozen of his vile soldiers to his berth on board the Nemesis.

But he did, in part because Optimus still couldn’t bring himself to touch another like that. 

Megatronus had been ‘it’ for him, and he’d been so confident that their passion and shared beliefs would be there for the rest of their lives. It had distracted him from the problems, though – the arguments he now obsessed over, the signs that Megatronus had already decided what he wanted to do if petitioning non-violently did not get him the results he wanted.

More inappropriate questions clawed about his mind – what did this all _mean?_ What would happen now? Would the sparkling make a difference? 

Was it Primus’s will if it was theirs: a child conceived in a time of peace between the leaders of opposing factions? 

The Matrix was as forthcoming as a rock beneath the maelstrom in his spark. Optimus pressed his hands to his chassis as if suppressing the pain there that felt awfully like grief. Like doomed hope.

He would not know more until Ratchet was done with Megatron, and perhaps not even then. He would need to talk to Megatron himself, even if it brought him no peace.

Ultimately, that Megatron was carrying was inconsequential to the war. Who he laid with was equally unimportant. 

It should not matter. 

_And yet._


	32. Corollary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I played around with perspective at the beginning and end of this chapter, so apologies if it reads as a bit of a bump. I struggle writing large groups of characters talking like this, so I hope it all comes over okay! Thank you for reading along. =)

Ratchet brought the smell of the Medbay with him into the meeting room. The acrid, cool tang of disinfectants and electro-neutralising solvents lingered long after the mix had dried away. Normally he wasn’t even aware of it – his olfactory sensors had set it as a kind of default. After Megatron’s surgery, though, and with a queue of inquiries, messages and pings from damn near the whole command team waiting for him, Ratchet had skipped the final rinse that would have diluted the smell.

It had still taken a while to get cleaned up. It was years since he’d last operated on a carrying mecha; he’d forgotten what drastic _leakers_ they were.

Scope was taking the first observation shift, and he’d take over after however many hours for recharge were left after this meeting was finished. Ratchet hoped it would be short – or at least his participation in it would be. There was a clusterfrag unfolding, but as far as he was concerned, the extent of his involvement in _un_ -fragging it was keeping his patients alive and as comfortable as possible. 

His end of this mess was in-hand for now.

Though, Ratchet thought as he set optics on the mech at the head of the table, there was certainly going to be more slag pouring into his lap soon enough.

Optimus was the only one who watched him come in. Prowl and Jazz were both looking at their datapads; Red Alert was reading across five arranged in a diamond; and Ironhide was turned in his chair, legs crossed, watching Optimus.

_Utter clusterfrag._

Ratchet dropped down heavily into the seat opposite Prowl, produced a cube of energon from his subspace, and settled in. 

“Thank you for joining us, Ratchet,” Optimus said, voice steady as if Megatron hadn’t been dragged aboard pregnant and dying nineteen hours ago. The Prime folded his hands on the table and looked about the collected mechs for a moment, then fixed his gaze back upon the medic. “What is his… _their_ , condition?”

Prowl, Ratchet was interested to note, was the first of the other heads to turn to him. Of course it would be a concern based in _consequences_ if one or both of his patients had died on his table. Iron Hide was similarly brutal in his pragmatism, but on a much more short-sighted scale, and would likely take news of Megatron’s death as unfortunate but ultimately beneficial within the war. 

Optimus… didn’t bear thinking about.

Ratchet set down his cube and rested his wrists against the edge of the table. The absolute attention he drew reminded him of teaching; how his most impressionable students believed that it was him that decided whether a mecha lived or died.

_Most of the time it’s plain scragging luck, good or bad._

\--

“Both Megatron and the sparkling are stable, though there is all likelihood that the trauma is going to take a toll. He’ll be under constant _medical_ observation in case of a protocol glitch or a hardware failure. I’m keeping him in stasis for another twenty-four hours to give his auto-repair more time to stabilize the wound.” He tapped his fingers on the edge of the cube in a wave. “After that, he’s going to be very limited in terms of movement. Because of his condition and the area, I’ve not been able to do the kind of weld or patch work I would normally” 

To Prowl, he added, “I would not categorize his condition as critical, but certainly warranting immobility and substantial care.”

“An’ the bitlet?” Jazz asked. His expression was unreadable beneath the visor covering his optics; mouth a thin, pale line.

Ratchet picked up his cube again and sat back in the chair. Apparently he still had enough energy to be angry at the _idiot_ responsible for this mess. “Well despite your efforts to cop a feel,” he snapped, “you didn’t actually make contact with the sparkling. Tore the chamber and damn near bled the carrier out, but it’s fine.”

Jazz’s shoulders rose up, squaring out his frame, and Red Alert was quick to cut him off before he made a rebuttal. “Is he a threat to ship security?”

“As a physical threat, in his condition, no,” Ratchet replied, mouth slanting. “As the Decepticon Commander, absolutely.”

Red Alert nodded, thoughtful. “Those threats will come from outside. There is no indication as of yet that the Decepticons are aware that their Commander has been… _detained_. Until it is known, we cannot rule out a Decepticon sympathiser on board the Ark acting for him should news of his whereabouts and condition get out.”

Ironhide rumbled a low note. “The brig-”

“Is not open to discussion,” Optimus cut in, flat and calm with seldom-exerted absolute authority. 

A bristle of surreptitious looks and flaring fields went across the table at the command. When no one spoke for several seconds, Ratchet cleared his vocaliser with a huff. “In his condition, Megatron can be sufficiently contained within the quarantine room. It’d be dangerous to move him right now.”

Optimus appeared satisfied with the assessment. Red Alert tucked the left datapad beneath the central one, muttering to himself. Ironhide had folded his arms across his chassis, openly impatient and uneasy with the whole meeting but sitting through it. 

Prowl, seated next to Ratchet, turned his chair an inch towards the medic. His hands withdrew with the datapad into his lap, giving the impression of neat attentiveness. “Tell us about the sparkling.”

Jazz’s helm tipped in a jerk indicative of rolling his optics. “So bucket-head’s plugged up. What does this change, really?”

“Our understanding of recent decisions and the predicted trajectory of this conflict,” Prowl replied, brow plates raising. He picked up the datapad and held it upright on the table, looking between each mech in turn as he conveyed his tactical analysis to the command staff.

“We have been preparing for widespread biochemical attacks because of the raid on Iatros, and trying to determine the motive as to why the most dangerous chemicals were soon returned to Autobot custody. It seems likely, now, that the obstetric equipment was the goal and everything else a ruse to misdirect our speculations.”

Prowl set the datapad down flat and framed it with his hands, brow furrowed. “That the Decepticon Commander has been carrying a sparkling since the start of the war also sheds new understanding on the movements of the Nemesis. With the exception of early encounters, one of the most powerful warships in Megatron’s fleet has not been in any direct combat engagements – including ones where its arsenal could have resulted in victory. Presumably this has been a safety measure as well as a matter of secrecy, as knowledge of Megatron’s condition has not spread beyond the Nemesis.”

Ironhide drew a slow spiral on the table with a single blunt finger. “Also says why he’s not been fighting himself since Iatros. Megatron’s never been one to shirk from a fight – that’s the Arenas as well as his setting an example for the Cons. You had him on the back foot on Iatros, didn’t yeh, Prime?”

Optimus inhaled slowly at the question, obviously discomforted by it. “He was… obviously struggling. If Starscream hadn’t led an aerial bombardment at that time, I believe Megatron would have been defeated.”

“He got mobbed by the Eradicons an’ ‘bridged right out, then,” Ironhide added. “Emergency evac’.”

“We can assume that this trend of cautious distance will remain for the remainder of his carriage,” Prowl concluded, then nodded to Optimus to convey that he was done.

Ironhide’s engine rumbled as he resettled in the chair. “So now what? Do we take him straight back to Cybertron for trial?”

Optimus shuttered his optics as he shook his helm. “We can’t do anything before he’s recovered and I’ve been able to speak with him.”

There was a palpable ripple of unease across the table, but it was Ironhide who spoke up. “Yeh don’t need to do that.”

“Yes, I do.” When neither Ironhide nor Red Alert appeared convinced, and with Prowl and Ratchet already aware, Optimus bit back a sigh and steeled himself for the admission. “Megatron… claimed that I am the sire.”

Ironhide balked, optics going round. “He _what_?”

Jazz’s lip curled, openly sceptical. “To me when I had a knife in his side. He would have said _anything_ to save himself.” 

Silence as the implications of that sank in, leaving the question of whether it was true unanswered for tense seconds. Finally, Red Alert prompted, “Ratchet?”

“I isolated a sample of CNA from the sparkling and gave it to Prowl for profiling.”

Ignoring the arched brow at Jazz shot him, Prowl nodded to Ratchet. “Obviously we don’t have many CNA profiles for the Decepticons, but I found an old record that matches. I can conclude with 94% certainty that the CNA is from Soundwave, the Third in Command.”

Though the news settled everyone else at the table by some degree, Optimus shifted in his chair and watched Ratchet. When the medic finally met his gaze, it was cool and inscrutable. He may as well have been having a staring match with the bulkhead.

Optimus’s hands had unknowingly clenched into fists atop the desk in the short silence. Realising the slip, he forced his fingers to uncurl and lay flat on the glassy surface. “Have we intercepted any communications regarding Megatron’s capture?”

Red Alert sat up a little, apparently grateful for the change in topic. “No. We’re out of range of the Nemesis, but there are a dozen outposts and smaller vessels in receiving distance between us and Kimia, where the ship is still docked. It appears that the remaining command team have declined to reveal his capture within the faction, perhaps due to the precedent set regarding secrecy of the sparkling.”

“We will also keep his whereabouts and condition confidential,” Optimus affirmed without missing a beat. “This will get out in time, but for now this is classified information.”

There was no dispute to the order, and only acceptance of the assessment. However they tried, there would be no guessing at the potential repercussions of what had happened. Red Alert stacked his datapadds into a single tower and subspaced it. Ratchet drained his cube.

Prowl set his datapad down with slow finality. “When Megatron is recovered from his injuries, we have to let him go.”

Jazz slammed his elbow down on the table, pointing a single finger at the tactician. “I dunno if you missed a memo, but there’s a warrant out for Megatron’s arrest. Most wanted mech on or off Cybertron.”

There was a fractional brightening in Prowl’s optics – a subdued indication of frustration and anger. “And this qualifies as a legal arrest? You’ve turned a simple reconnaissance mission into a political nightmare. This entire incident will spread support for the Decepticons and weaken our credibility. There would be riots if we attempted to bring him to trial like this.”

Ironhide bared his clenched teeth, hunching over his arm braced across the table. “Primus slag it, Prowl. Millions dead, half of Cybertron bombed to dust, and we’re quibbling over credibility? Whether Megatron’s been kidnapped or’s a prisoner of war?”

Red Alert rubbed his thumb across the chevron on his helm. “Unfortunately, things are rarely so straightforward. Particularly outside of the battlefield. Apprehending and injuring anyone -let alone a carrier- during combat is one thing, but this…”

“We should trade him, or question him,” Ironhide said, looking between the assembled mechs with a frown. “At least get something out of all of this. Primus, this can’t have all been for nothing.”

Prowl somehow managed to straighten even further in his seat, directing himself to Ironhide first before distributing his focus equally between the rest of the assembled mechs. “The Decepticon Commander was assaulted in mutually-agreed Neutral territory whilst his ship underwent legal and transparent repairs; was taken under duress via groundbridge into open space; and ultimately imprisoned upon the Ark without communication to his commanders. This was an illegal kidnapping of an unarmed, carrying mech who suffered serious harm in the act – wounds which were inflicted deliberately so that he would be unable to resist. He will not make it to trial according to any law, and all this has accomplished is damage to our credibility, reputation and any future possibilities of negotiating a peace.” 

The tactician pursed his lip-plates, apparently assessing his words before he continued. “Megatron cannot be treated as a prisoner, nor should we perceive him as one. He is a guest undergoing medical treatment, and will be released once we have made contact with the Nemesis.”

Midway through Prowl’s speech, Optimus had interlaced his fingers atop the table. It gave the impression of complete attentiveness whilst also allowing him to squeeze the joints together until they ached. His hands remained frozen in position when Prowl had finished, and it took a long time for him to look up from them. 

“I cannot allow this opportunity to simply pass us by. If he can be reasoned with…” He trailed off, optics narrowing almost regretfully. Apologetic for what he was compelled to do, because he knew that his personal feelings were influencing him. “We will not seek the Nemesis out. When they come to us, we will turn him over.”

“That’s taking a hell of a risk,” Ironhide murmured, sounding half-impressed by the gall of it.

Optimus nodded fractionally, mouth twitching into a grim sort of smile. At times like this, he almost wished his battle mask was a constant fixture. “It’s what I must do.”

\--

The meeting went on for another half hour, and Ratchet had long gotten the impression that it had started at least as long before he’d arrived. By the end everyone looked frustrated and worn down, resolved to an imperfect course of action and knowing it.

Ratchet had had every intention of getting out with everyone else before Optimus could pin him with those bright blue optics and corner him for answers. He was _done_ with this until he’d gotten at least some defrag in. He’d already been pushing himself with overtime working with Scope before the emergency had come in, and he was close to running on mental fumes now.

He was last to the door by sheer chance, and made the mistake of looking back.

Optimus remained at the head of the table, helm lowered and optics dim in troubled thought. He looked to be on the verge of burying his face in his hands.

_Frag it all._

Before he knew it, Ratchet was lowering himself into Ironhide’s seat to the Prime’s left.

\----


	33. Testify

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh this has been such a git to write and I'm just shoving it at you now. I hope it's not as ropey as I fear it is and that you enjoy it.

The door was closed; as good as locked with Optimus still inside after _that_ meeting. With just the two of them, it was no longer the Autobot Commander and his Chief Medic sat at the table. Optimus leaned forward onto his arms, sagging like Orion had after a stressful day. Ratchet reached a hand out and rested it on his shoulder, a friend and a mentor.

“When he came through that ‘bridge,” Optimus began haltingly, the words trailing into silently shaking his head. “I thought he was going to die in my arms.”

Ratchet squeezed the red armour beneath his hand. Fighting Megatron was still a source of internal conflict for the Prime – even if it didn’t seem to be the case for Megatron. If Optimus had managed to kill the Decepticon Commander in battle, by sword or blaster, the war would almost certainly be won, but for Optimus it would be at a massive personal cost. 

The silence was deliberate on Ratchet’s part. Steadily becoming more and more overwhelmed, Optimus quietly went on, “And the sparkling…”

Hurt conflicted with guilt was a palpable grey haze in the mech’s field. Ratchet kept his hand where he’d placed it; a paltry bit of support on the scale of things, but meant all the same.

“I know.”

Optimus nodded a little, optics blank, then straightened with a loud inhale. Dragged back his composure and self-control where it was fraying in familiar Megatron-related style.

Not for the first time, Ratchet wished that the younger mech’s spark would take more cues from his processor. 

After a moment, Optimus spoke again with the staggered and quiet intonation of a confession. “I know it’s not relevant, or even appropriate…” A self-depreciating hum that looked pained. “It’s petty, even.”

Ratchet braced himself even as he nodded encouragingly. “Go on.”

“I… I was certain that the sparkling was mi-my progeny.” He said it looking down, sombre optics a mix of shame and something like disappointment. It was too personal, too private and small a complaint that Megatron had moved on from him so fully. So quickly.

Ratchet withdrew his hand as Optimus finally looked up and met his optics. His mask was withdrawn, leaving his face open and raw with feeling.

“When I held Megatron, after moving him off of Jazz, it was like I felt a… _connection_. Something more than familiarity. And I was _sure_.”

It was Ratchet’s turn to direct his gaze to the table, jaw tight as he clenched his dente. He folded his hands one atop the other. Not very long ago, he’d felt the shape of the sparkling through the flexible pleats of Megatron’s chamber. Its helm had been turned to him, limbs barely distinguishable as it lay in a loose egg shape. A very solid, very real nightmare.

Optimus was watching him quietly. Still miserable, but interested now by Ratchet’s reaction.

Ratchet bit the tip of his glossa, then slowly uttered, “Soundwave’s CNA was present in the sparkling.”

The medic’s posture and averted gaze were clues enough with such an ambiguous statement so suddenly delivered. As coolly worded as Prowl’s statement. Optimus sat back slowly. “Is he the sire?”

Ratchet looked back at him from the corner of his optic, still hunched broad and strong on the edge of the table. “I do not think it a matter of military necessity to announce who my patient has conceived a child with,” he replied tightly. “ _Especially_ whilst he remains unconscious.”

Optimus saw the warning and ignored it anyway. The chair creaked as he leaned forward. His plates twitched minutely. “Ratchet, is it mine?”

The medic shuttered his optics. “It’s _his_ , Optimus.”

“I know that.”

Ratchet abruptly got to his pedes and moved around the back of the chair to the viewing port. His pale reflection was starkly clear against the black backdrop of space. No nearby stars. The Ark was navigating in circles in the middle of nowhere whilst they figured out what to do.

Optimus stood up to follow him, though the move had been admission enough.

“It’d be easier for everyone – _especially you_ \- if you didn’t know.”

The coarse remark didn’t stop Optimus from approaching. They met gazes in their reflections.

“Are you going to lie to me again?” the Prime asked quietly.

Disappointment. Threat. A dare. Ratchet scoffed and pivoted to face him. “I did not _lie_. Prowl wanted CNA for a profile. I gave him it.”

“Don’t play semantics with me,” Optimus bit back with a flash of real ire. “Respect me if not our friendship and tell me the truth.”

It was like finally thumbing the safety and pulling the trigger. Ratchet nodded, once and stiff. “You’re the sire.”

All at once the hydraulics in Optimus’s legs stopped working. Ratchet caught him with a start as his shoulders were grabbed, and helped the taller mech stagger back to a chair. “Easy – just sit.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d caught a suddenly-impending-parent. He’d never have thought he’d be doing it for Optimus, and he’d have smiled if the whole scragged situation wasn’t so convolutedly awful.

A day’s worth of tension had evacuated his frame in an instant, leaving Optimus feeling hollow with shock. He kept holding on to Ratchet once he was safely back in the chair, processor running fast and vivid. “Jazz. Jazz almost-”

“Jazz did what he’s trained to do,” Ratchet cut in firmly. “Which is to get out alive with whatever high-profile thing he can get. By any means necessary.”

A hiss of impotent frustration, then Ratchet sat down himself. “We all wish he hadn’t brought home a surprise like Megaton halfway to term with a sparkling, but he _did. He_ probably wishes he’d finished the job on the Nemesis-”

Optimus flinched.

“-but with Megatron claiming it was yours… He would have had to report a statement like that, found some way to confirm or deny it. At least now the one other person who has any kind of right to know does, and what happens to that information…”

It was half of a minute of silence for Optimus to process that, helm bowed in thought. He finally let go of Ratchet’s shoulders and slumped back. He dragged a hand across his mouth, squeezed his jaw and glanced at the door everyone had left through. The medic allowed the silence, seemingly lost in his own thoughts and in no hurry to share them.

Finally, quietly, Optimus asked, “What about Soundwave’s CNA?”

One of Ratchet’s shoulders twitched up in a shrug. “Integrated from transfluid.” Immediately he realised how cold and flat that answer was, and that weariness and distraction were not an excuse. He shot Optimus an apologetic look before lapsing into a teaching voice, knowing that the former archivist would want the information more than the emotional landmines that went with it. 

“Sparklings have a very high demand during carriage, compositionally speaking, and transfluid covers much of the material that would otherwise be leeched out of the carrier’s frame,” he explained. “Regular additions to the chamber are highly beneficial to both sparkling and carrier, especially if the carrier is in rough shape to begin with.”

Optimus was still, expression tight as he listened. Finally he murmured an “I see” and set his hand on the table. Already he was thinking about the Ark’s mainframes, of the research he could do to put Megatron’s condition into some kind of comprehensible framework. If he knew more about what had been happening to him, perhaps he could understand better. Not feel quite so overwhelmed.

Ratchet could almost see Optimus’s processor working and anticipated more than a few comm. queries later on. He made a note to check that ‘Anticipating Carriers’ was in the computer bank, though he wasn’t sure yet if such a research project would help or hurt the Prime right now.

It was clear that the Prime’s thoughts had turned inwards and that he was setting his processor up for a solid brooding session tonight. Ratchet recognized the signs, knew that Optimus would be distracted and irritable until he’d sorted through his own thoughts and feelings and come upon some stable ground. 

He needed some time and space, Ratchet, decided. And then more than likely a reality check in the morning, because Optimus could be catastrophically blind to the obvious when Megatron was involved.

The medic thumbed the polished edge of the table, debating with himself before finally just blurting: “Why didn’t you have a bolt?”

Optimus, to Ratchet’s surprise, looked rather abashed all of a sudden. “I meant to get around to it, but between the Halls and working with Megatronus… I’d heard that all heavy labour frames were sterile, anyway.”

Ratchet folded his arms with a grunt, reminded all over again of how damn _young_ Orion had been. Not that he could blame the archivist for a common assumption, particularly when there was a second mechanism involved who _clearly_ hadn’t had any contraceptive installed either.

“Many of them were as a consequence of their functioning, not as a default,” Ratchet explained. “Poor fuel quality, hazardous environments, radiation exposure, slip-shod repair work.” 

Despite everything, or perhaps _in spite_ of it, a grim, teasing little smile pulled at his mouth. “The odds were probably against it, but as always, you managed anyway.”

Optimus raised a single impressive brow plate, utterly deadpan. “Now is hardly the time for humour.”

Ratchet’s smile turned into an ugly parody of a grin at the comment, and he shook his head. “Now’s the perfect time for a laugh. Primus, what a mess.”

That was a reasonable summation of the situation, Optimus conceded, and bowed his helm with his own thin smile. When he looked up again, his expression was open in the way of physical and emotional exhaustion. “Thank you for telling me,” he murmured, then tipped his helm towards the door. “You’re off duty, Ratchet. Please get some rest.”

It was a clear dismissal, informal as the wording had been, and Ratchet was quick to rise. Coming around the table on Optimus’s side, he touched the mech’s shoulder again in passing. “We’ll talk more later. Comm. me if you need anything.”

 

\---- 

The Nemesis was stuck at Kimia. Though they did not know exactly who had been kidnapped under their protection, Kimia had put their security and engineering forces at the ship’s disposal to use however they saw fit. Now the ship was a hive of activity, with four shifts working around the clock to get the nacelle installed and the vessel fit for departure as soon as physically possible.

There were apologies. Meetings. Offers of compensation. On the second day after Megatron’s capture, Starscream was vocally interested in _none_ of it. It felt like he himself was tethered in place, manacled by the ankle to the ground when he _had_ to fly. 

Their engineer, Traction, was running on stimulants more than actual energon. He was giving status reports at the start of every shift, now, and each time assured the Commanders that the repairs were going as fast as they could. They were bypassing checks, squeezing as many mecha to a task as possible, and running the Kimian’s ragged.

However, with the closest possible departure two and a half days away, the majority of the crew were left to chew at the bit and look inward. 

The daily officer meetings had been brief, tempestuous affairs: Soundwave furiously preoccupied with things more important and useful than actually speaking to anyone; Starscream simply furious. Throughout the ship, the Eradicons were in a state of shock which fluctuated between impotent anger and violence.

It was a testament to their loyalty and discipline that no one had been shot yet.

The energon trail had been left to dry for a whole day before the decontamination crew cleaned it away. Starscream had demanded it be analysed in a grid system from inside the quarters where Megatron had been attacked to the airlock he’d left through. Quantity, spread, composition – all of it held vital information as to the state their Commander had left in. Speculation ran rife, and amongst the Decepticons ranks, anxiety was quick to deviate to ill-considered violent impulses. Anger and anxiety were palpable throughout the ship, as much a part of the atmosphere as oxygen, but it was outright fear that had gripped them as they awaited the report. 

Knock Out had led the analysis. When he finally delivered his findings on the bridge, there had been more Eradicons in the recessed operations pit than were on duty. They were paid no mind as they were the most obviously troubled amongst the crew. To his credit, Knock Out gave a quick summary before going into the technical specifics for Starscream and Soundwave’s benefit. It had been a relief to everyone when he declared that no fluids from within the gestation chamber had been found despite the location of the wound. 

Knock Out giving his report had been the longest Soundwave had turned his attention away from the consoles since Megatron’s capture. 

The orders regarding repairs and trawling incoming data were placeholders – and everyone knew it. Like a temporary course whilst they recovered their bearings, and the use of the ship. Rumour was that once the Nemesis was fit to leave again, they would go hunting. Where was unknown – Megatron could have been ‘bridged anywhere.

Privately, the senior medics and commanders knew that their Lord would be destined for Optimus Prime as soon as his condition became known, and that meant the Ark.

Soundwave had been looking for the Ark through every Decepticon ship in the fleet currently in this sector, and was redirecting as many vessels as possible to join the search. He did not tell the captains why – only that they would comply. 

There were no communications about Megatron’s capture, even obliquely. 

*

Eight hours before the docking clamps would be removed and the Nemesis released back into space, Starscream finally declared a ship-wide announcement. He took his place front and centre of the bridge platform, looking out into the curved array of display screens. They continued to show scrolling glyphs of navigational reports from every Decepticon ship in transmission range, and the Nemesis’ operational status.

With an undetectable command from Soundwave, the central screen changed to project Starscream’s oversized visage back at him.

This transmission would be audial and visual throughout the ship. Only the rooms where the Kimian engineers were still working had been meticulously excluded. 

“My fellow Decepticons,” Starscream began, expression sombre but with a simmering heat clear in his optics. “Five days ago, an outraged occurred. What the Autobot who infiltrated this ship did was nothing short of a war crime, hot on the thrusters of the Tigan massacre.”  
“There has been no outside communication of our Lord’s capture, nor his condition. It would appear that the Autobots are as inclined towards… discretion as ourselves with regards to the sparkling. Likely due to the illegality of his kidnapping.”

The Eradicons shuffled a little in the pit, some of them exchanging dark glances. Starscream slid his long fingers together like blades as he began to pace.

“Lord Megatron is doubtless on board the Ark by now, and Optimus will be attempting to use the sparkling as leverage. The Autobots will return him before this kidnap can yield anything of benefit to them. They must return him, as the repercussions if they do not are beyond a bombed triage camp. Once the Nemesis is free of Kimia’s docking clamps, we will find the Ark whilst the Decepticons see to it that the Autobots suffer in ways they hadn’t _conceived_ of. We will wreak such destruction that the Ark will seek _us_ out and _beg_ us to stop.”

The Seeker was prowling now with glorious malice, wings hiked high and thrusts glowing at his heels.

“They feared a non-existent chemical division? Now we have one. All of Commander Shockwave’s unseemly personal projects have been authorised and transports are on route to his laboratories to begin collection and distribution. Gideon’s Glue was banned by the conventions of war. Since the _rules_ don’t mean anything to the Autobots, we are producing _vats_ of it. Prisoners of war being held for future use will be publicly executed. This and more will not stop until Lord Megatron returns to us.”

The bridge was a palpable field of excited anticipation: a will to revenge the most easily stoked with the faction of downtrodden and overlooked cogs-turned-soldiers. Everyone was riveted, optics fixed upon the Seeker. Absorbing every seething exultation. 

Starscream’s pace slowed, and he bowed his helm. His optics narrowed and darkened a shade as he returned to the centre of the platform-come-dais. 

“And if anything has happened to Lord Megatron, or the sparkling he carries,” he said slowly, quietly, “Then the universe shall never know a peaceful day until _every_ Autobot is dead.”

It was not a speech to summon cheers or applause, but the shift in the room was as profound as a roaring crowd. The Eradicons stood with straight backs and helms raised high, resolved to patience and proud to pursue revenge for such a cause. They saluted in unison when Starscream ended the transmission, then immediately dispersed to their consoles and the door.

Soundwave had paused in his work to observe the shift in the crew. He had thought before that controlling certain elements of the Decepticons was like keeping a bunch of trigger-happy psychopaths all pointed in the same direction and quashing doomed bids to power. Now, however, every member of the Nemesis had their devoted attention pointed in the same direction, and they would be broadcasting that the trigger-happy psychopaths being kept in check on faraway worlds be let loose. 

Sitting in Megatron’s highly-sculpted throne in the middle of the bridge, Starscream looked to be thinking the same thing. And smiling wickedly as he did.

\----------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, Megatron wakes up...  
> Thank you for reading, kudos-ing and commenting!


	34. Shield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So nervous to post this after all the build up. I hope it reads convincingly, and that it was worth the wait.

Megatron lay under a single point of light in a room without dimensions. There was only darkness beyond the edges of the medical berth, raised at one end so he was almost sitting, and with wide stirrups to which his pedes were solidly cuffed. His wrists were equally restrained at his sides, and a thick metal band crossed his chassis and arms, pinning him back.

At the foot of the berth, framed by the Decepticon’s knees, Optimus stepped out of the black. He strode into the space between the carrier’s thighs as if he belonged there, pressing both hands possessively across the mound of the sparkling.

“Don’t touch me.” Megatron shifted away the few inches the restraints would allow. “What the Pit are you doing?”

“Taking what’s rightfully mine,” Optimsu replied calmly. His optics were lowered to the mesh he was stroking in slow elliptical strokes. “It knows me.”

There was a sudden tension about his midriff. A deep, primitive pain. It built upwards to agony at such a velocity that Megatron cried out in shock as much as agony.

Optimus looked up, finally meeting over-bright red optics. “You truly thought that you could keep this from me?”

It was not the wave-like cramp of a contraction. The pain just went on. Megatron threw his helm back, gasping, arching against the restraints holding him down.

The Prime’s hands swept up to the top of his rounded plates and pressed down. Began to _pull_ , as if working out a bubble of air.

“You thought you _should_ , after you failed to keep even an adopted sparkling alive?”

Megatron’s voice cracked on a scream when he felt something _give_. His panel snapped open and he felt and heard fluid spatter onto the ground.

“Stop!” he rasped. “Don’t!”

The pulling stopped, then one hand moved to his valve. Megatron’s startled protest turned into a bellow from the first syllable. He couldn’t see, but the burning stretch felt as though Optimus had forced his whole hand inside in one thrust. 

“Push, Megatron,” Optimus snapped, his voice suddenly loud and harsh. His optics were narrow and cruel above the severe prow of his mask. “Give it to me _now_.”

Megatron shook so hard that the berth rattled, blind with pain so grotesque it obliterated his ability to think. His entire frame was agony, and he was sure he was dying.

Optimus yanked his hand back out and held it up, dripping. There was a knife in his fist, equally coated in energon, as if it had come from inside Megatron’s valve.

“If you won’t give it to me,” he began, raising the knife up high.

“No - _please!_ ”

“Then you shall not have it either.”

“No!”

Megatron arched when the blade stabbed into his side, crying at the spray of hot energon the hit his jaw. 

More stabs, fast and powerfull, from all angles into his stomach until the mesh was _gone_. Ragged tears and bubbles of erupting fuel and mesh. His entire midsection pulped. Soon there was nothing but gaping wounds and pouring energon and breathless screams.

Optimus kept going, calm and determined, as if it were a banal thing to carve and chip up the sparkling from the outside in.

\-----------

Megatron lurched awake on a berth with a raised back. Bright light overhead and _pain_ , carried across and tearing. His midriff hacked apart, the sparkling butchered and dead and cut out of him in pieces, leaving him hollow and gaping to the air.

Suddenly a hand on his belly, shockingly solid and he could feel his intact mesh beneath the firm touch.

“It’s alright, you’re both alright,” a voice said, low and calm. “Here, feel: sparkling’s fine.” 

They withdrew their hand to move his own into its place. The warm, heavy swell of the sparkling’s mass was only marginally reassuring. Megatron drew his hands back and pressed his fists into the berth, vents harsh and fast. His optics were slits, fixed on the orange ceiling overhead and slowly adjusting to the lights. It was bright, blinding, and he felt horrendously exposed.

As if sensing his discomfort, the lights dimmed just enough to be tolerable.

Rasped air and whirring fans were a background roar in his audios, and it took several seconds for him to realise they were from his own frame. Megatron shuttered his optics and tried to marshal his ventilations, focusing on the lividity of the pain that emphasised the weight and presence of the sparkling.

“You’re in the Ark’s Medical Bay, and both you and the sparkling are safe.”

The attack. The shuttle. The groundbridge. Megatron cycled another deliberate vent and pressed his hand into his undamaged side, willing the cramping pains back. There was too much to process to be distracted by his body’s complaints.

A mech appeared at his shoulder but wisely did not touch him to get his attention. The Autobot was confident, but sensibly wary. Megatron had a vague recollection of him from his time with Orion. A medic friend. Pain made it difficult to remember anything more specific.

“My name is Ratchet, Chief Medical Officer,” he said, then waited for some kind of acknowledgement. 

Megatron gritted his dente, pressed his fists into the surface of the berth. After a moment, he uttered the medic’s name back at him. 

Ratchet nodded, satisfied with his coherence. “Your gestation chamber has gone into spasm because of the surgery,” he said, going on in the same matter-of-fact tone. “I can give you an injection to stop-”

Megatron shook his head, onlining his optics again. “No.” 

A single optical ridge twitched up. His hand paused where it had been reaching. “No?”

Megatron shook his head again, gritting his dente. Autobots valued comfort and tenderness in treating their wounded, and he would not have it automatically inflicted on him.

“Used it too much before,” he said, lips thin around bared dente. “Stopped because… ah… risk of complications in delivery.”

For a moment Ratchet looked surprised, then the expression eased into a gruff sort of understanding. Some barely-perceptible tension left his frame with it; as if Megatron had passed some kind of test.

“If that’s what you want. But tell me if you change your mind.”

Megatron nodded just so Ratchet would drop it, though calmed fractionally when his hand no longer reached for a needle. It was reassuring that, despite being kidnapped from his own quarters, his consent still mattered here.

The cramps were also reassuring, in their way. His innards spasmed around the solid mass of the sparkling, still whole and safe within his chamber. He touched the soft patch covering the entire right side of his midsection, then traced his fingers along the dozen rubber tubules trailing out from the bottom and over the side of the berth.

“Drains,” Ratchet supplied, already making his way around the berth past Megatron’s pedes. He reached down and lifted a silver drum with a single hose from the floor, showing it clearly. “We’re having to allow what’s left of the haemorrhages to leak out naturally rather than use a vacuum burn.”

Ratchet set the drum back down and tucked the hose the tubules fed into back underneath the berth. “It’ll take a few hours for the nano-platelets to fully seal the last of the leaks, and I’ll remove the drains after that.”

Megatron didn’t react to the explanation, faintly surprised to be receiving it at all. He shifted with another cramp, curling with the rising wave of it, and felt something tug at his chassis. The ribbed hose ran inside his collar faring up into a branching port, and then into two separate canisters set on a table by the head of the berth.

Ratchet remained by the drains on the mech’s right, though he pointed towards the canisters in turn. “Standard energon drip, and a supplement cocktail to support your autorepair and the manufacturing plant. Both systems are fighting over the same compositional resources; this prevents either of them from lacking.”

Megatron listened whilst starting at the canisters, wondering at the excessive explanation, but feeling his systems gradually cycling down because of them. He looked back to the medic, frowning even as his ventilations slowed towards normal and the tight tension in his limbs eased. Now that he could concentrate, he registered the Autobot’s EM field lapping at the edge of his own at a very low, very basic frequency.

_Safe. Safe. Safe._

Carrier coding, to which all else had become subordinate, was appeased by the constant press of reassurance and information. Nothing untoward was happening to his frame; the other mech was a safe presence for now; and there were alone in a small, clean room.

Clearly Ratchet knew all that, and was treating him as a carrier first. A prisoner second.

“What’s my condition?”

Ratchet stepped backwards and reached for a stool, perching on it with a hiss of hydraulics. Megatron noted the slump of the medic’s shoulders and the smell of an overheated frame.

“You came out of surgery early yesterday and I’ve kept you in stasis to recover,” Ratchet began, which explained his gamble of sitting at the Decepticon leader’s berthside. “The chamber was pierced but not torn the way your mesh was. The sparkling wasn’t struck, and I managed to reroute your systems so it wouldn’t get the backlash of you going into shock. Best I can tell it wasn’t affected by the trauma, and I’ve repaired the damaged to your chamber.”

He sat forward with a grimace, interlacing his hands between his knees. “The weld in the pleated mesh will need extra attention in future as it won’t stretch or yield as the sparkling grows.”

Megatron gripped the edges of the berth and pushing himself further back until he was more upright. It sent a bolt of fire down his torn side and triggered another vicious cramp, but it made him have to look up a lot less to meet Ratchet’s gaze.

“What happened to me?” he rasped, since the medic seemed so keen to telling him things. “What am I doing on the Ark?”

Ratchet grunted with an unhappy note, obviously warring with himself. Then, he muttered, “Fair question,” and glanced briefly towards the door. 

There was a chair bolted to the floor on one side. Megatron couldn’t decide if it was a seat for a guard or himself.

Radiating fatigue and frustration, Ratchet leaned forward on the stool and set his elbows on his thighs. “When you and Optimus were _negotiating_ over Telios, we noticed that you were wearing lens caps. Combined with your absence in ground assaults, Command got curious. The agent sent to the Nemesis was meant to assess your condition and report back without you ever knowing he was there. Obviously those orders went to slag and you ended up coming along his extraction route. That was forty-eight hours ago. You were moved into here after surgery. It’s at the rear of the Medbay, so no cameras. Someone’s going to be outside monitoring you at all times.”

“A guard, you mean,” Megatron sneered.

Ratchet cocked a brow at him. “Right now, a good kick from a mini’ could bring you down. No, you’re in isolation as a patient, and it’ll be a medic overseeing you.”

No matter how they prettied this up, Megatron thought, he was still a prisoner here. It was just a question of for how long, and what they’d do with him. The thought sent a lance through his spark, and he was peripherally aware of Ratchet sitting up as his systems cycled harder.

“Easy, you’re safe here. You and the sparkling have nothing to fear under my watch. I promise.

It was not Ratchet’s attention he was anxious about, and Megatron’s pride had him clench his jaw to keep from saying as much.

The Ark. Optimus was here. His medic had operated, run all sorts of scans. _Surely_ he knew…

“No one’s going to use the sparkling as leverage or barter,” Ratchet said, quiet but with iron-clad certainty and conviction. His gaze was steady and intent, poised for a reaction. Dangerous waters.

Megatron’s fists tightened hard enough to creak at his sides. He wished fervently that he could sit forward from the berth, but he may as well have been paralysed.

“I scarcely trust the word of an Autobot after Tigan,” he growled.

Ratchet frowned, obviously surprised. “The weapon’s plant?”

“The _triage camp_ , you sparkless drone,” Megatron snapped, dente bared and setting off a flashing alarm on the monitor bank set into one wall.

Ratchet gave the light a cursory glance, then glared at the Decepticon. “That was a coward’s-”

“You Autobots slaughtered _eight thousand_ wounded and medics _from orbit_!” Megatron forced himself upright on his elbows, feeling something tear and trickle in his side. “And then you had the _audacity_ to kidnap me from my ship in a _Neutral space dock_!”

“That wasn’t the plan.”

“Liar!”

Ratchet stood so abruptly the stool toppled over. “Megatron, if you don’t calm down I’ll have to sedate you for your own good.” He jabbed a finger towards the carrier’s midriff. “That sparkling’s gone through enough stress already, and if-”

“I thought you weren’t going to use the sparkling as leverage, _Doctor_.”

Ratchet’s expression suddenly hardened, lip curling. “Right now, I don’t give a flying _frag_ about anything outside this room. You are my patient, as is that sparkling, and those are my priorities.” He set his hands on the edge of the berth and leaned in close. “There’s no surveillance in here, Megatron, so I’ll say this once: I know who the sire is, and it’s not who I’ve put in the report.” 

Megatron sat back with a blink, physically moved by a cold wave of shock. He’d been so caught up in Optimus finding out for so long, and now he was on the Ark… It baffled him that the medic had allegedly lied about the identity of the sparkling’s sire.

“You’re not meant to be here, and I’ll keep you in the best shape I can until you leave,” Ratchet went on, the hard edge of his voice softening a little. “But you will have to _trust_ me.”

When he was satisfied that the other mech had calmed down, Ratchet straightened to a more respectful distance. Then, with professional calm, he began to inspect Megatron’s side.

As soon as the medic laid hands on the leaking patch, Megatron caught his wrist. “Why?” he murmured, immediately letting Ratchet twist out of his grip. 

Two of the tubules had been tugged out of place. Ratchet produced a small hooked tool from a compartment in his thigh and began easing the bottom edge of the patch up.

“Because you know as well as I do that you wouldn’t leave otherwise,” he replied quietly, helm lowered to his work. “Even if conception took place before Optimus received the Matrix, the religious Order would still claim that the sparkling was a link to Primus, and thus within their jurisdiction. That is, of course, after some Autobot tribunal got through with you both to check that this _wasn’t_ a cross-faction _tryst_.”

The carrier took a steadying vent, swallowing back a wave of sickness. Had he not been receiving his fuel intravenously, he definitely would have purged.

Usually Megatron wasn’t at all squeamish with repair work on his frame. Indeed, he’d found it highly beneficial to have the kind of knowledge that watching medical procedures provided. The leaks and gaping mesh where the drain ports had been torn out were so close to the sparkling, though, that seeing it was nauseating.

As well as the damage, Ratchet’s words sent a cold chill through his lines. He’d forgotten the influence that the priests still held in Autobot Command. With the Prime as their military leader, such involvement was inevitable. They also had funds, influence, vast stores of knowledge, and proportionally very few of them had been killed since the outbreak of war.

Megatron turned his helm away towards the canisters, one hand cradling the undamaged side of his gut. “And Optimus Prime himself?”

Ratchet glanced up without moving his helm, looking from beneath the prow of his helm. “I’m not getting in the middle of any of _that_.” A huff of air. One tubule fed back and glued into place. Ratchet sighed. “It’s between you two. Factions, the war won’t come into it if I can help it.”

This wasn’t what Megatron had been bracing to deal with. He felt his mesh tighten beneath his palm moments before another cramp tore through his internals. Optics shuttered to keep still whilst the medic worked, he tightened the fingers of his fist one at a time as Breakdown had shown him.

Breakdown. _Soundwave_.

“Do the Decepticons know I’m here? Has there been any contact?”

It was unlikely given the way he was taken, and Megatron wasn’t surprised to see Ratchet shrug with a grunt. It was a dismissal of the question, not an answer.

He bared his dente in a sneer. “You’re already in enough trouble, Ratchet. Falsifying reports. Sheltering the enemy. Does court-martial amount to execution in these cases?”

The second tubule was fixed back into the mesh, but the patch needed replacing. Ratchet stood to fetch a new one appearing entirely unaffected. 

“Medical confidentiality. Botching a CNA sampling with donor instead of sire. Keeping meddling priests away from an unborn sparkling.” He harrumphed as he peeled the sterile layer off the patch. “I think I’ll manage.”

The soft grey metal was lightly adhesive on one side. Ratchet smoothed the edge of the existing patch down and then applied the new one over the top with firm, careful fingers. 

“No one wants that sparkling’s sire to be Optimus,” he uttered, so rough and quiet that Megatron briefly wondered if there _were_ recording devices. Ratchet adjusted the drain tubules and then stepped back, going to the sink to wash his hands. He kept his back to Megatron as he spoke. “This is enough of a clusterfrag without that entering into it. No. You’ll eventually get returned back to your people, _Lord_ Megatron, with the Decepticon _heir_ , and we’ll go on killing each other until someone has enough like none of it happened.”

Ratchet turned as if to leave then, but stopped himself at the end of the counter. Megatron watched him keenly, processor buzzing and internals throbbing.

“Monitors in the berth will send an alarm, but there’ll be someone outside if you need anything. Comm. button’s on that table.” He stepped towards the door.

Megatron raised his chin. “One last thing, Doctor.”

Ratchet stopped at the threshold, one hand raised to palm it open. He turned after a pause, giving Megatron his full attention. “What?”

“Does Optimus know?”

The delay, the way Ratchet’s optics flickered and cast about the floor was answer enough. Megatron was gratified, though, to hear him actually answer: “Yes.” Then, “but I’ll keep him away until you’re recovered.”

Megatron schooled his expression, fists clenched, and nodded once.

Ratchet turned back to the door, but his hand didn’t quite reach the keypad. Over his shoulder, optics narrow and bright, he added, “I’ll ask about Tigan.”

Then he was gone and the door locked behind him.

Megatron watched for the duration of another cramp, tense and wary. He could hear his fluids siphoning out through the drains, and the steady percussive drips of the fuel lines. There was nothing else to hear but the sound of his own systems, which muffled out any suggestion of what was outside that door. 

Finally, exhausted and hurting, he sank back in the berth and pressed his hands to his face.


	35. Incendiary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe how hard this chapter fought me, and I hope it's worth the wait. Thank you for your patience, and I hope you enjoy!

Ratchet found Prowl, Ironhide and Optimus in the officer’s mess. The Prime was off-duty and had a cube of High Grade in front of him, which had barely been sipped. He suspected Ironhide had put it there, and he didn’t need to look too hard at Optimus to see why.

Optimus rose to his feet. The medic was off duty, and the urgency with which he walked poured dread into his spark. “Ratchet-”

Cutting the Prime off with a wave, Ratchet headed straight for the fuel dispenser in the corner. And the tactician at it.

“What happened at Tigan?” he snapped, bearing down on the smaller mech. “And why can’t I access the reports?”

Prowl continued to fill his cube, plates still and expression mild. “I presume that the post-op reports have not yet been compiled, and that mission-sensitive data is still in play. It is standard procedure. The reports will be available for officers with appropriate clearance in a matter of days.”

“But what _was_ it?”

Cube filled to an inch below the brim, Prowl shifted his attention fully to the medic. “There were two bombardment sites on Tigan: a weapon’s plant and a munition’s depo.”

“You’re sure?” Ratchet folded his arms, shoulders hunched. “Because Megatron was quite insistent that it was an emergency triage camp. Over three thousand wounded and medical personnel.”

Prowl’s doorwings twitched minutely. “That is quite an accusation,” he uttered quietly.

Ratchet glanced towards where Optimus and Ironhide had been listening, both wearing similar expressions of shock and unease, then back to Prowl. “It it’s true, it’s a war crime.” His engine snarled a low, throaty sound and he shook his head. “Which’d make us two for two inside a matter of cycles.”

It was obvious when Optimus slid into a command mindset, his posture straightening and hands flattening atop the table. Hours of intensely personal unease was trampled aside in moments. “Prowl?” he prompted when nothing was forthcoming.

The tactician was already on his datapad, cube set aside and forgotten. After scrolling for a few seconds, he spoke without looking up. “We received corroborating intelligence from two agents and a third mech of the nature and threat of Tigan’s bases. Because of the close proximity of the warships Talon and Reaper, a rapid orbital bombardment was executed at 14:00, five days ago.”

“Right before Jazz got Megatron,” Ironhide said, staring at his High Grade as if wishing it were a great deal bigger.

Prowl approached the table still consulting the pad. “Within an hour, in fact.”

Optimus grit his dente and exvented hard. Even if the timing _was_ a coincidence, the events would still seem linked. To say nothing of what it would mean if Megatron’s accusation of Tigan’s base being a medical triage camp was correct.

“Did yeh confirm the hits afterwards?” Ironhide asked, pursuing the same line of enquiry. Confirming destructive hits potentially meant a scan, which may have been foregone if the attack had been rushed into action. 

Prowl’s helm twitched in the negative. He was typing, his doorwings lifting to stiff points. 

“The last entry is from Ultra Magnus. Commander Starscream began an, I quote: “appeal to investigate the nature and validity of the targets, but that the complainant aborted procedural grievance claims during the preliminary discussion phase.’” He paused with a blink, clear indication of how disturbed he was. “’Pending further communication from Decepticon Command, and with the limited resources of the sector, the investigation has been suspended.’ Presumably this was interrupted by Megatron’s kidnap.”

Optimus was very familiar now with Jazz’s mission report, disturbing as the reading had been. “Starscream was in pursuit of the shuttle,” he affirmed. He wondered at the lack of communication from Ultra Magnus over what surely must have been an unusual disturbance over the comm.s. But then, he conceded, perceiving and interpreting emotional cues were not some of Magnus’s strengths.

Ratchet’s pedes seemed heavier than normal when he came to the table, glowering between both Prowl and Optimus now. “And Tigan wasn’t followed up on?”

“There was an immediate flyover to confirm that the targets were hit,” Prowl replied, scrolling further. “They were.”

Ratchet shook his head and folded his arms with a grunt. “Well that’s just _stellar_.”

Prowl appeared not to have heard. He thumbed off the pad and dropped his arms to his sides, directing himself to Optimus. “Trailway oversaw the Tigan operation, but they’re not a tactician. I need to investigate this myself.” 

Optimus nodded, granting the dismissal. “Of course. Utilise whatever resources you need.” He watched Prowl give the rest of the mechs a single nod before turning on his heel and striding towards the door. 

Once the security seal hissed back into place, Optimus adjusted his elbow on the table and pressed his hand across his optics. The officers mess was an informal but secure location, facilitating off-duty and off-the-record conversations in a more relaxed setting. Right now, it was a place with two of his oldest friends and a closed door.

Ironhide clapped a hand against his shoulder, abruptly breaking the silence. “Prowl’ll get t’the bottom of it.”

“And then what?” Ratchet snapped, looking between them both. He ground his dente when Ironhide pinged him with a glare, refusing to speak outside of close range comm.s.

_::Drop it until Prowl gets something, Ratch’. ::_

Optimus frowned and drew his hand down to his jaw, optics dim as his focus turned inwards.

Ratchet raised his chin. _::Deliberately bombing a medical site is a war crime.::_ His mouth curled, bitter and ugly. _::Another one.::_

_::Yeah, or Megatron could be lying, like he lied about that sparkling being Optimus’s just to save his aft. We won’t know until Prowl’s done his job, so leave it.::_

There was a pause as Ratchet seemingly froze, his expression unchanged but every microplate and vent flap held in uncanny stillness. Ironhide regarded him a moment before grunting and settling back in his seat, content that the conversation was over.

Optimus, aware that there had been some form of communication though unaware of the content, lowered his hand completely and settled it in his lap. He looked at the cube of High Grade that Ironhide had foisted on him, faintly nauseous by the thought of drinking it. “We cannot appropriately react to this without further intelligence, but when we do, it will be with the full extent of our powers.” 

Ratchet turned the chair opposite Ironhide and dropped heavily into it. They now sat bracketing the Prime, though Ratchet sprawled back in a weary slump that simultaneously gave the mech some space. 

Ironhide drummed two fingers on the table as if weighing up the situation. There was no point in pushing this conversation further when they were all this tired, and with answers still forthcoming. Optimus was right about needing more information. Until then, all they could do was wait and stew. 

_::You know what he’s already torn up about,::_ Ratchet’s voice suddenly came over his channel, though the medic wasn’t actually looking at him. _::Go on. I’ll talk to him, and send him your way if he needs to hit something.::_

It made Ironhide wonder, sometimes, what Optimus would think of the ‘managing’ that took place without his awareness. Ratchet was right about him having more of the soft skills to deal with the mess of emotion that Megatron’s arrival had dredged up. Ironhide possessed more of the aggression-management, ‘common sense clip round the helm’ skill-set. 

“Gonna check on a few things an’ turn in,” the older mech said, already getting to his feet. He slid his cube across to Ratchet, then nodded down to Optimus. “Comm. me if yeh need anything, alright?”

“I will, thank you, Ironhide.”

They sat in silence for longer than Ratchet would have expected. Optimus sat staring into the middle distance, quiet and still. Ratchet drank half of what was left in Ironhide’s cube in one pull, then stopped to nurse over the rest. He was well overdue a break to refuel and defrag. Sitting down highlighted the fatigue aches in his systems, and the potent fuel was settling warm and thick in his tank.

Optimus cycled a deep ventilation, breaking himself out of his reverie, then looked to the medic. “How is he?”

“In surprisingly good shape. He’s recovered well from surgery and his autorepair is running at peak efficiency.” Ratchet shifted his hands to bracket the cube on the table. “I’ve had ample opportunity to run deep scans on his frame, and it looks like he’s had numerous carrying-related ailments treated per the protocols. He’s been receiving good antenatal care on the Nemesis.”

Optimus smiled very slightly. “That is good to hear.” The slight upturn of his expression sank back as quickly as it had appeared. He lowered his chin towards his chassis. “I need to talk to him, as soon as possible.”

“No you don’t,” Ratchet said, expression stony. When Optimus’s helm twitched, clearly not understanding, he sighed. “Not yet.”

The Prime’s hands clenched. “The longer Megatron is left thinking that it was our _intention_ to kidnap him like that-”

“It’s too soon,” Ratchet cut in calmly, “for _you_ to see him. Send Prowl to talk to him.”

Optimus stared at his friend, confidant and oft-advisor, plainly conflicted as to how to respond. Ratchet was one of a handful who’d know about Orion’s relationship with Megatronus, and of even less who knew how their history still tore at him. He knew that Ratchet was not questioning his loyalty, or insinuating that Megatron would be able to manipulate him. Beyond that, he had no idea.

“What do you mean?”

Ratchet had tensed unconsciously whilst he waited, and now sank back into the chair. “His systems are precariously balanced at the moment between the carrier coding, combat survival instincts and prolonged, near catastrophic system stress. Megatron needs to rest, left autorepair and fuel supplements work on the microscopic damage I can’t get to, and come to terms with where he is.”

“I don’t understand why I cannot-”

“If the sire of his sparkling turns up in his doorway right now, I don’t know how bad what it’ll do to him will be,” Ratchet snapped, getting to the scalding core with the abruptness of a gunshot. “The coding it stressed to the extreme – fight or flight. He _doesn’t_ want to be here, but carrier protocol prioritises the sparkling’s welfare above all else. His judgement _will_ be impaired by a flood of chemicals and the most basic lines of code.”

His mouth remained open as if to go on, then Ratchet shut it with a clack of dente. He glowered at the far wall, jaw tight.

Optimus watched with a cold sense of dread that did nothing to quell his need to know. “And?”

Ratchet was still a moment more before finally looking back to Optimus, watchful and conflicted. He was not one to spare feelings when someone needed telling, but he was not sparkless. There was always a bitter taste, this time drowned by the rest of the cube of High Grade that Ironhide had left to him.

“And,” he went on with a static-charge crackle,” I don’t know how you’ll react. Coding for sire’s isn’t as potent as it is for carriers, but it’s not avoidable.”

Optimus was quiet, absorbing that and its implications a moment. Finally, quietly, he murmured, “I see.”

He did not push any further.

****

Exhaustion turned a calibrating blink into an eleven hour defrag that left Megatron’s processor spinning as soon as he awoke. Medically induced stasis of the kind used after surgery wasn’t really recharging, and he wasn’t surprised to find that he’d slept again after waking for scant minutes with Ratchet. His frame protested mightily to having been prone for so long, his struts aching from insufficient support and his mesh bruised and throbbing to his core. The chamber was taut with cramps again, and there was a knot of fire beneath the patch where Ratchet had operated.

A medic who quietly introduced herself as Scope entered soon after he’d awoken, offering him pain suppressants and relaxants for the cramps. He refused both flatly, eyeing her critically as she moved around him. 

As Ratchet had warned, she removed the drains and sealed off the holes in his side. She had large hands that were surprisingly deft, and the procedure was over within minutes. Scope also switched the emptying fuel and supplement canisters out for full ones, and finally left Megatron to rest with the assurance that she was right outside should he need anything. 

Megatron remained prone for scant seconds before pushing himself upright with his hands and easing his pedes over the edge of the berth. He had to take a moment standing with a hand to his side to quell the pain and nausea before moving again. Then, without caution or finesse, he yanked the fuel drip out and left the tether trickling on the floor.

The room was obviously not a converted holding cell but attached to the ship’s medical bay proper, as Ratchet had said. Sharp chemical smells filled his vents, not so different than in the Medbay on the Nemesis. A quick search of the few drawers and cupboards alongside one wall showed that the room had been stripped of everything except the berth. Even the door control was missing, replaced by a smooth panel that didn’t quite match the rest of the wall.

It was an aesthetic change, Megatron determined, as behind the easily removed panel the circuits were quite exposed. Two crossed wires would open the door. Further examination revealed that there were three locks on the other side to get _get_.

Which perfectly summed up his situation, he thought.

There was no telling where exactly the door opened to, and Megatron felt far from ready to get into a brawl catching some Autobot off guard. More than that, there was nowhere he could go. Short of commandeering a shuttle, there was no way off the ship. Even a groundbridge would be of no help without coordinates for a destination.

Megatron clenched his jaw and scowled up at each corner of the room. There were no obvious surveillance devices. He replaced the panel over the door mechanism, dismissing the obvious and problematic escape entirely.

Though he chose to remain contained for now, he would not be ignored.

The former gladiator slammed his fist into the wall by the door in a series of powerful blows, beating an angular dent. He waited a minute after ‘knocking’ and then did it again, studiously ignoring how it jarred his side. 

After six minutes, the doorway was filled with Ratchet’s irate frame.

“ _What?_ ”

Megatron straightened and made a point to drop his hand from his side. “I demand to speak to my commanders.”

Ratchet raised an optical bridge, vents giving a little chuff. He stepped fully into the room, allowing the door to close on a short corridor that functioned as an airlock.

“We aren’t anywhere in range of the Nemesis to open a standard comm. line,” he said, setting his hands on his hips. “Now, back on the berth before you tear something, and I’ll reinstall the drips.”

The Decepticon remained rooted in place, scowling. “I am not an invalid.”

“You’re recovering from major surgery and cascade burn-outs,” he replied mildly. “A single hand motioned towards the berth. “Now, Megatron. Please.”

That familiar medical-wave pulse was radiating in deliberate waves, and this time Megatron could detect the sour note of frustrated exhaustion in Ratchet’s field. Warnings began to crowd his processor, and he closed his hands as they started to tremble.

Ratchet stepped in close, fingers hovering near the larger mech’s elbow. “You need to rest, Megatron, and I’d like to check you.”

He relented in silence, moving back to the berth and gingerly sitting up on the side. He couldn’t quite suppress a grimaced hiss when he led back. The mesh was lightly padded and flexed to support his frame, but it was far from comfortable. He missed the array of Eradicon-made cushions that had steadily invaded his quarters, and didn’t find the longing as pathetic as he thought he ought to.

Ratchet busied himself turning off the drips and pinging for a cleaning drone to attend to the mess. “Now that your systems have settled, you can go back to regular fuelling if you’d prefer to stay off the lines. I can pre-mix the supplements and leave a stack of cubes in here for you. But you’re still on berth-rest.”

That was significantly preferable to being trapped on the berth, even if the short excursion to the door had left his leg struts trembling and his side on fire. Megatron wouldn’t give the medic the satisfaction of being right, so he merely nodded.

He watched in silence as Ratchet finished tidying away the hoses and came checked the site where the drip had been pulled out. The cannula had come out effectively; automatically depositing a gummy seal on the inside of the energon line to close the breach. There was only the smallest thread of fuel on his arm – the mess was from where the canisters had kept flowing onto the floor.

Ratchet came around to his patched side, then, standing level with his midsection.

“Your systems were too distressed before to try. I’d like to physically examine the sparkling, if I may?”

Megatron stiffened at both the unfamiliar phrasing and the fact that the medic was asking his permission to proceed. He assumed an internal exam, and felt a visceral sort of chill at the prospect of receiving it from this stranger. 

Ratchet sensed his wariness, and quickly added: “Palpate your midsection with my hands and use my integrated scanners to examine the sparkling and chamber. Nothing invasive.”

That was infinitely more acceptable. “You may proceed.”

The medic’s face twitched as if biting back a comment, or an optic-roll, and then he lay both hands over the curve of the sparkling. “Tell me if there’s any discomfort.”

Megatron watched as he moved his blunt fingers with practiced ease around his abdominal plates, framing and following hidden paths and edges he was unaware of. Ratchet’s optics were distant in that way of an alternative sensory input prioritising attention, his hands shifting in small and small movements. The wound in his side started to throb, but no worse than it had felt when he’d woken yesterday.

“How much can you tell about the sparkling just by touch?”

“A fair bit. Medics have sensor suits integrated into the hands.” Ratchet’s optics focused briefly on Megatron’s face, and he added, “But there’s equipment if one doesn’t have the hardware. Scanning wands, that sort of thing.”

Megatron thought of Breakdown’s broad, blunt fingers and the slim tools he wielded. Of the practice dummy in the back of the obstetrics suit, and the extensive researching the frontliner had undertaken. 

Soundwave’s hand across his gut only days ago, feeling the sparkling’s mind.

“And what are your hands telling you, Doctor?” Megatron said, sharper than he’d intended for forcibly aborting his train of thought.

Ratchet’s fingers were warm against his mesh, slightly splayed and pressing gently. “Chamber’s supple, and the lubricant viscosity and temperature are within normal parameters. Sparkling’s inverted and turned to the left. Legs straight – plenty of room. Helm’s here.” Two fingers pressed into his side, just inside his hip faring. 

“Your manufacturing plant’s dorsally placed,” Ratchet went on thoughtfully, his tone suggestive of a former occupation as a teacher. “And you have an extra umbilicus.”

Megatron looked at his abdominal plates, wondering at how the medic had divined such detail. “What does that mean?”

Ratchet shrugged a little. “Nothing, really. The sparkling’s anchorage is that bit stronger, and there’s an extra channel for composite traffic. You’ll feel it in your lower back when it comes to the emergence. Lying on your back will speed up the first stage, and there’s a smaller risk of the plant coming down ahead of the sparkling and blocking the cervical port when you’re in active labour.”

That was all new information to Megatron. He suspected that Breakdown either didn’t have access to the kind of technical detail that Ratchet’s specialism did, or hadn’t thought to go into such specifics about emergence at this point in his carriage. 

Ratchet drew his hands back to their initial position of framing his middle, his thumbs meeting in the centre. “You’re smaller than I would have expected, but still reasonably high in the bottom half of the percentile.”

An improvement on the bottom 25%, Megatron thought to himself. His intensive couplings with Starscream and Soundwave had yielded results. He only hoped that after however long his tenure here lasted, the sparkling’s growth trajectory wouldn’t be impacted.

Not that there wasn’t a source of transfluid he could access here, a poisonous thread of a thought supplied. Megatron pressed a hand to his face. Flashes of his recharge fluxes pressed against his mind, a profane series of snapshots that excited and repulsed him in equal measure. 

“Megatron?”

He kept his hand over his optics, dente gritted. A cramp began to gather in his sides, radiating towards his centre, and Megatron wondered if it could have been triggered by Ratchet’s touch, or the image of Optimus’s face. 

The medic lay his palms flat as the pain built, still and attentive as it reached its apex. 

“You said before you’ve been getting a lot of these,” Ratchet said as the cramp began easing off. “How’re you managing them if not with the relaxants?”

Slow walks around the Nemesis. Massage therapy from Breakdown and Soundwave. Chairs customised to his body to work in. Cushions gifted from his soldiers that supported every plate when he retired to rest. Long oil baths. 

Megatron lowered his hand as a fist and pressed it into the berth at his side. “I manage.”

Ratchet withdrew his hands, fingers twitching as he dialled back the sensors. “All things considered, the sparkling’s in good health. Its carrier, on the other hand, is showing severe signs of system stress, for which I prescribe berth rest, supplement-infused energon and as much recharge as you can manage. I know the situation is far from ideal, but try to let your body heal.”

“Acknowledged,” Megatron uttered, flat and cool.

The Autobot withdrew with a stiff nod, taking a step back from the berth. “I’ll leave you to get some rest. My comm.’s linked in to the berth – if you need anything, just call and either Scope or myself will be here.”

Megatron’s gaze slid to the ceiling, dismissing the medic. “Understood.” 

A pause, and then Ratchet offered, “I can bring you a datapadd if you get bored. I’m sure I can fill it innocuously enough and still keep you mildly interested.”

Autobot distractions and propaganda, most likely. Megatron’s lip twitched in a sneer. “That won’t be necessary.”

Ratchet didn’t say anything else. The door opened automatically to him when he approached, and locked behind him with a hiss. 

Lying alone in the quiet, Megatron shuttered his optics and exhaled heavily. He ran a hand over his middle, cupping his palm where he now knew the sparkling’s face to be. 

 

****

Soundwave hadn’t left the bridge since Megatron’s capture. After the Nemesis had departed Kimia, he’d integrated fully into the consoles and turned as still and quiet as a corpse. His processor was immersed in the computer, linked instantaneously to the datafeeds coming in from the sensor banks of scouting ships that acting as extensions of himself. There was no space in his mind for worry or speculation – only data. He was scouring the galaxy raw of secrets one bit at a time.

Starscream, like the rest of the bridge crew, had taken to completely avoiding that corner of the bridge. There was something grotesque about the exposed wires spilling from the consoles, coiling around Soundwave’s datacables from where they were sunk deep inside. The lights directly overhead were dim, all power drawn in and slaved to Soundwave’s search. Even the monitor displays were dark.

The Third in Command hadn’t recharged since departing Kimia. Knock Out had mentioned the need to oil his joints to compensate for the lack of movement, and Starscream wasn’t entirely sure he’d been joking.

For his part, Starscream felt he was leading the ship far more pragmatically. He was recharging as necessary, for one, as at least _one_ of the command staff ought not be at risk of psychosis from a lack of defrag. Concerned as he was for Megatron’s absence, the war continued and troops needed coordinating and orders. 

Soundwave was more effective than he could hope to be in conducting the actual search through the fleet, and someone had to lead the army.

Sitting back in the throne-like chair with his legs crossed, setting his glyph to orders upon a datapad, Starscream appeared significantly more at ease than he actually felt. Worried as the crew was, there was an image to maintain and an example to be set. 

That image was savage like a blade: cool, sharp and precise. The batch of orders he had just disseminated across the Decepticons had concerned secondary targets their forces had been withholding assaults upon in favour of preserving resources for larger campaigns. Now the generals had been granted permission to attack at will, and the Autobots didn’t know where to send their support ships to first. Carnage was descending simultaneously across space, with no forewarning or obvious trigger.

Optimus Prime would know perfectly well what had provoked such widespread attacks. The Autobots had been living on borrow time since their agent spilt their carrying Lord’s energon across the deck, and their Leader ought to have known that.

Starscream believed that the message was clear above the bodies and smoking ruins. 

_Return them or we’ll never stop._

“Commander Starscream.”

Starscream dropped the datapadd to the floor with a full-bodied yell, and the Eradicons jerked away from their consoles. It took a moment to realize that the voice hadn’t come from any single mech, but from the speakers all around. From the Nemesis itself.

The Seeker picked up the padd with a growl, looking to glare at the mech who hadn’t spoken in two days. “ _Soundwave_ , you-” 

The main viewing screen flashed red, cutting Starscrean off, and then changed to a map of the Valen system – a large star orbited by six planets. It was frustratingly familiar to all the Decepticon officers, and a frequent tactical talking point. Valen 4 boasted rings rich in Tellurium and Iridium, a resource that would astoundingly boost their fleet-wide production of weapons and munitions. 

The Decepticons hadn’t been able to get near it as the Autobots had managed to colonise Valen 4’s moon first, creeping in on the skidplates of a group of Neutral explorers who’d settled there decavorns ago. They were enthusiastically mining from their new space station, and had massive resources at hand to defend their stake from every attack the Decepticons attempted. The organic natives on Valen 3, a pre-industrial civilization who’d barely discovered locomotion, were quite unaware of the drama in their skies.

In the bottom right corner of the screen, a rotating image of one of Shockwave’s recently authorised projects appeared. An animation began outlining the weapon’s trajectory into the Valen system via a groundbridge near the second planet. A blue ring expanded out from the star, turning the five planets black as it passed. The Autobot symbols scattered about the map winked out one by one.

Starscream lowered the datapadd as he rose to his feet. “You’re proposing… sending Shockwave’s prototype nucleonic missile into a star for the sake of destroying three Autobot colonies and irradiating an entire solar system? Not to mention the rings.”

“Material resources: found elsewhere,” Soundwave’s replied through the speakers. “Likelihood Decepticons will ever gain access: negligible. Autobots: will not have them either.”

Starscream approached Soundwave slowly, watching for movement. “Estimates put the Autobot population at two-hundred-thousand,” he said, though there was nothing in his tone to suggest this was anything more than a fact.

Soundwave’s helm hung to his chest and his faceplate was impossibly black. There was not even a reflection in the sucking darkness. The speakers crackled with white noise for a second.

“War: expects casualties.”

A raised brow, and then Starscream walked back towards the main screen. He stood with his hands on his hips, taking in the devastation shown. Even the illustration was chilling. “It’s lunacy. Was this Shockwave’s idea?”

“Negative.” Another crackle of static. “Shockwave: predicted outcome of missile’s detonation within star.”

Starscream nodded to himself. “Have you found any sign of the Ark?”

“Negative.”

The Eradicons in the pit lowered their helms and traded silent looks with one another. Starscream raised his chin and traced his optics over the blank spots on the map where the Autobot symbols had been.

“Well then,” he announced with a smile. “Let us arrange delivery.”


	36. Flexion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of filler to keep momentum going. Enjoy!

“Primus, did you get any recharge at all last night?”

Megatron was half curled on the berth, facing the door, and radiating exhaustion and discomfort. The carrier was likely unaware of how his knees drew up fractionally when another cramping pain built around his entire midsection, but it caught Ratchet’s attention like a flare. 

“Have they ever been this bad before?” Ratchet asked as he approached the berth. This was no longer going to be a quick visit to check in before the officer’s meeting.

It was a moment before Megatron shook his head, reluctant to respond to the Autobot medic. Ratchet sighed and extended his diagnostic cable, reaching for the corresponding port on the mech’s side – already open to him. “Why didn’t you call for me or Scope?”

Megatron exhaled a rumble of hot air, lip twitching in a sneer, but remained silent. His mouth was a thin line. Ratchet puzzled at the uncharacteristic silent treatment, concern tempering his default impatience with such childish behaviour, and began skimming the readings he was getting.

Tank down to thirty-two percent; elevated temperature; autorepair still burning fuel; half a dozen processor threads snarled up from lack of defrag; and the gestation tank was in a state of ongoing spasm.

Ratchet spooled his cable back in.

“You’ll need to go back on the drip if you can’t take two cubes now,” he murmured, steering away from his standard vitriol about mechs letting themselves get into this kind of state. Megatron wasn’t some Autobot trying to tough it out because of pride. He was a prisoner in everything but name, and his condition this morning warranted only pity. “I can give you an antiemetic for the nausea - standard carrier medication. No risk to the sparkling.”

Megatron considered that a moment before nodding assent, jaw still clenched. Likely fighting back the need to purge, Ratchet realised. He fetched the vial out of his integrated kit and shook it between thumb and forefinger. “It’s gaseous. Inhale and the feeling’ll stop in a minute.”

Ratchet snapped the cylinder in half level with Megatron’s mouth, watching with approval as the silvery cloud was immediately sucked in. Moments later, the carrier’s optics shuttered with relief and the tight hunch of his shoulders eased a little.

“I’ll check the patch, now, and replace it if need be,” Ratchet said, well aware that this was a patient that needed a running commentary of what he was about to do and why. Some mecha preferred he keep his vocaliser muted about what he was up to with their parts, and he couldn’t guess at Megatron’s preferences ordinarily. Anxious carriers benefitted from information – the assurance of their knowledge and consent as to what was happening to them.

The deep wound in Megatron’s right side had begun to seep again. Ratchet drew his fingers through the mix and picked up trace amounts of oil and coolant in the energon, indicative of minor tears and faulty joins in the myriad lines. It would sort itself out for the most part. Indeed, given that Ratchet couldn’t weld and solder so close to the gestation chamber, it would _have_ to.

“Just needs cleaning.” He began to slide a scalpel beneath the edges of the soft patch, cutting through the gummy glue covering the underlying mesh. “It’ll sting when the solvent hits, but tell me if it’s any worse than that.”

Megatron gave a low grunt recognizable as acknowledgement, though hardly articulate. Ratchet arched a brow but continued easing the patch away. “Has your physician been synthesizing enough antiemetic for you?”

Another grunt, though clearer and more defined this time. Megatron drew his right hand down his face, keeping his elbow out of Ratchet’s way and dragging together his thoughts through pressure across his optics. His left hand remained trapped beneath the curve of his side, supporting the sparkling’s weight in the absence of additional padding. “No. My _physician_ is self-taught, and lacks the knowledge and resource of doctors like you.”

Ratchet scoffed a little to himself, finding himself almost smiling at the barb in that statement that was directly wholly at _him_ rather than the shortcomings of the Decepticon medic. Typical functionalist anger. He’d agreed before Megatronus took to the datanet that the system had long been flawed, but he still wasn’t convinced that planet-wide civil war had been the way to go.

“It’s easy enough,” he replied lightly, choosing to ignore the vitriol and take the comment at face value. Ratchet applied a wash of medical grade solvent over the Decepticon’s mesh. When the fizzing stopped, and with precise dabs and swipes, he began mopping over the puckered gash. “I’ll outline the procedure for you to return with, and more of those vials. Carriage is a highly specialised field, and the texts available on the open market are somewhat generalised. I can hand over detailed clinical studies, peer reviewed articles and breakdowns of some of the lesser known remedies like this. See if I can help fill the blanks.”

“You are very confident that I will be released before this sparkling arrives.” Another powerful cramp turned Megatron silent, optics narrowing in a glare on the far wall.

Ratchet bit the inside of his cheek, grateful now that Megatron was facing away from him. The carrier’s anxieties appeared in glimmers, framed in anger and outrage, but they were very real and deep. The longer this went on, the worse his condition would become.

“They will. They have to,” he said. He dismissed the sudden urge to touch his patient’s shoulder, focusing on the wound. 

Ratchet discarded the soiled mesh cloth and began applying the bonding gel again, gently manipulating the mesh as he went. “Do you want a relaxant or analgesic from the cramps?”

Megaton turned his head just as the fresh patch was applied, and the sting of exposed raw mesh eased to a throb. “As I told you before: no.”

The medic stepped back from the berth and put the used patch and equipment on the counter. “You’re never going to recharge like this short of forced stasis. I can try to ease some of the tension in your back. It will help with the intensity, if not the frequency.” When Megatron continued to look sceptical, he showed his empty hands. “No drugs, I swear.”

A moment as Megatron weighed up the pain and exhaustion, costing it out. Then, grudgingly, he adjusted himself so that he lay a little straighter on the berth. It was impossible to lie on his front, now, and he angled his weight off of the sparkling with his arm and one bent leg. “Proceed.”

Ratchet waited until the carrier had settled and then moved forward, coming around the back of the berth. “Tell me if I hurt you,” he said, pressing the tips of his fingers into the mesh either side of Megatron’s strut parallel to the sparkling. It was just off the pressure points, which would need to be approached slowly.

He worked in silence to force kinked lines, taut hoses and stiff mesh back to more pliant normality. Megatron was silent as he moved his hands around the mech’s hips and lower back, though the sound of his engine sunk into a low, purring rumbled the longer he massaged the mesh partially hidden by thick armour plates.

After ten minutes, Ratchet was pleased to detect a distinct improvement both through touch and his scanning suit. Megatron’s expression was far from relaxed, however, his optics fixed on the door as if expecting someone to come in any moment.

Ratchet thought over their conversation yesterday and wondered if it was Optimus he was expecting to see. His assurances about keeping the sire away only carried so much weight. The closing part of their conversation, however, he could at least give an update on.

“I asked about Kimia,” he said quietly. He tucked his hands into fists and pressed them into the pressure points that he had been working towards, rocking his knuckles in hard circles. “I told them what you said about the triage camp.”

“How very noble of you.” Megatron was very still, but one optic tracked back to regard Ratchet over his shoulder. “And?”

Ratchet met the stare directly. “Prowl’s looking into it. It could be either suspect or a grievous error.”

“Inexcusable, either way.”  
Like the slaughter of the Senate, Ratchet thought with a pang, or the razing of the Crystal towers. Decepticon troop carriers that dropped acid instead of bombs so that the next wave of Autobot infantry had to wade through the semi-liquefied, still-screaming remains of the first wave. Battlefields that had turned into mesh-grinders, lives lost for nothing. 

“War’s never been something to bring out the best in people,” Ratchet murmured, optics hard and a shade darker than before. He lay his hands flat again for another scan.

Megatron hummed a brief, low note and finally looked away again. Ratchet was faintly surprised by the withdrawal, long aware that Megatron was not one to shy away from a verbal parry. But then, he conceded, the carrier was at every disadvantage now.

The sensors readings were a mix of reds and greens in the diagnostic analysis. Ratchet came around the berth to face Megatron properly. “The chamber’s tight but the manufacturing plant is still operating at an intensive rate. That’s why the pains are so bad.” 

It was also the cause behind his raised temperature and system-wide stress. The manufacturing plant was brutal in its command of materials and power at the best of times, and did not relent to system stress or injury. Its sole priority was constructing the sparkling, and the mechanism would run the carrier to the brink of death to see the process through. 

Given Megatron’s current situation on top of his condition, berth rest and encouragement to fuel and relax were laughable recommended treatments. The best they could do was manage as best they could until the Decepticon could be handed back to his own physician, on his own warship, with a treatment plan as long as his leg.

“I can do something to help, if you trust me to try,” he broached carefully.

Megatron rolled onto his back with a grunt and shot the medic a hard look. “No drugs.”

“I didn’t mean drugs. It’s a mechanical holistic approach.”

The puzzled, faintly irritated look that phrasing evoked was much like Ratchet’s own expression had been when he’d first heard of it. It wasn’t a ‘no’, however. After a moment of staring at one another, Megatron head moved just enough to be taken as a nod.

Ratchet made a quick visual assessment of the carrier’s hip and leg. Then, his hands more guiding than moving, he touched the high point of one pelvic flare and the thick armour over Megatron’s left knee. “Just, bend your left leg up until your pede’s level with your right knee. Good, turn your heel out. Right.” His grip firmed, fingers tightening for purchase. “Right: I’m going to rock your leg and hip now. It’ll feel strange. Tell me if it hurts or you want me to stop.”

The simple pull-push of Megatron’s left knee moving outwards whilst his hip was gently rocked to the right was met with brief resistance before the carrier’s frame relaxed into the motions. It became more fluid, then, the angles larger, but the pace remained slow and steady as a well-oiled pump. Ratchet’s helm was bowed in concentration.

Megatron had put his hand over the fresh patch as soon as Ratchet had started, automatically wary of it being jarred and split. The motion was gentle enough not to disturb the wound, however, and he was aware of a gradually increasing pressure in his left side. Unexpectedly, the cramps were diminishing with the pressure. “What’re you doing?”

Ratchet looked up without breaking his pace, arms moving steadily back and forth. “Massaging your chamber between your T-cog and primary coolant pump.” He nodded down towards Megatron’s frame. “All of our systems are basically connected, and there’s a theory that manipulating one component impacts on another, like links in a chain This technique is one of the very few of flexomation that actually holds oil.” 

His grunt bordered on a scoff. “I’ll never be convinced that rubbing someone’s hands can cure Cybercrosis,” he said, with a conviction that suggested someone _had_ tried to convince him. Once.

Megatron found himself relaxing against the berth, exhaustion stealing the tension from his limbs now that the cramps were easing. The manipulation, strange as it was, was surprisingly effective. “I’ve never heard of such a thing as flexomation.”

“It started out as an alternative therapy, popular with tune-up healers rather than repair professionals. The fact that it’s non-invasive appeals to some.” Ratchet was quick to add, “That doesn’t mean that someone who isn’t trained should do this. It could do some real damage.”

Wary as Megatron was to put faith in what the Autobots said, the constant reminders that his care under Ratchet was temporary was gradually building up to a reassuring hope. He nodded at this latest reference to Breakdown. “Noted.”

After a few more minutes of quiet motion, Ratchet eased Megatron’s leg back down flat. “How’s that?”

The aches were almost gone, and the recurring cramps more a slight pressure than a crushing grip about his side. Megatron invented deeply, plating flaring in a stretch, and he was pleased to find it didn’t make him want to purge. “Better.”

Ratchet’s mouth almost twitched upwards. He touched a hand to the carrier’s arm and then fetched two cubes of prepared energon from the counter. “Good. Two cubes, then a solid defrag.” He helped Megatron sit up, and put the first cube into his hand. “I’ll be back to check on you later.”

Megatron broke the seal with his thumb and brought the cube to his mouth, suddenly starved now that the nausea was gone. He didn’t notice Ratchet linger in the doorway before he left.


	37. Demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a grind to write... Sorry it took so long!
> 
> A huge thank you to Gatekat and Starshield for letting me use their ideas about carriage and the Cybertronian military, as written in the wonderful fic 'New Light: Creating Cybertronian Life'.

Megatron finally slept.

****

There was a warm presence at his side, comforting in its strength and harmonising frequency. Optimus stood within touching distance but kept his hands law at his sides. Megatron stared back at him, trying to read the shade and shuttering of his optics. 

After a few long moments of silence, Optimus bowed his helm with a sigh. “I’m sorry, Megatron, for how you have come to be here. None of this was intended.”

The remark stung in a way that the utter pointlessness of the apology didn’t, and Megatron swept his hand over the curve of his middle. “Of course,” he rumbled, glowering. 

The backrest of the berth put his sightline just below the Autobot symbol on the Prime’s shoulder. He snapped his gaze back as Optimus’s mask withdrew and revealed the uneasy slant of his mouth.  
It made him appear more vulnerable; more a mech than a Prime and military commander. Deliberately so, Megatron thought. It also troubled the distinction between the Prime and Orion Pax that bit more.

When Megatron said nothing else, Optimus looked to the heavy swell of the sparkling. “However,” he went on cautiously, “precious things are not always planned.”

Large black hands twitched and then touched the edge of the berth. Megatron watched them with an electric thrill of anticipation that was hardly quashed by higher reasoning. He wanted to feel those hands – unfamiliar in size but moving so like Orion’s had. To feel them touch him. He wanted it so suddenly and intensely that he ached with it.

“May I touch you?”

A whisper, fraught with nerves, loud as a canon blast. 

How laughable it was, after everything they’d done to each other’s bodies, that now they needed to ask. Megatron bit his glossa.

Optimus’s hand was raised toward his middle, expression riddled with feeling and conflict and code. “Can I feel it?”

_No. Please._ Megatron didn’t trust himself to speak, and didn’t want to lie passive beneath Optimus’s scrutiny and personal inner turmoil.

The carrier surprised them both by pushing himself fully upright and swinging his pedes off the berth, forcing Optimus to take steps back to make room. Optimus held his ground, however, when Megatron stepped boldly into him.

Orion had been smaller and slighter, his helm just reaching Megatron’s chassis. The divinely-instigated rebuild had put Optimus at close to equal height. They had not met each other’s optics like this before – without the hate and determination of the battlefield. The Prime’s optics were the same crystalline structure and colour of Orion’s. Even their expressiveness was the very same.

Megatron did not speak. He looked away, because looking suddenly hurt, then nodded very slightly. 

The passing of a ventilation, then a large hand slowly traced one side of his distended middle. 

Megatron strangled down a groan, gritting his dente and forcing himself to be irritated because such a tender touch was _not_ feeling the sparkling. There was a layer of mesh, the pleated wall of the chamber and the fluid inside to be pressed against before the tucked form of the sparkling could be detected. All Optimus had done was measure the roundness and manufacturing heat of his midriff.

With a rumble, he took Optimus’s cautious hand and repositioned it firmly against the sparkling’s body. “There,” he bit out, stiffening at the betrayal of his softened voice and the warmth suffusing his frame.

Optimus made a little sound of surprise and awe, fingers splaying and lips parting. “Oh…”

Megatron bowed his helm towards the sire of his sparkling. Their bodies were close enough to feel eddies of system heat and cycled air. His mouth twitched towards a wry smile. “‘Oh’, indeed.”

“I have to say…” Optimus looked up, and if he was surprised to find their faces so close he didn’t show it. “This gives me hope.”

Megatron shuttered his optics, hyperaware of heat and pressure and the swelling tingle of _want_ and _need_. Drowsily, his helm dipped lower. Their mouths grazed briefly in the barest of touches.

“Hope for what?” he murmured, sinking beneath the waves of this strange spell.

Optimus brushed his mouth back across the scarred lipplates as tenderly and lightly as the first touch. “For the future.”

The words were breathed into Megatron’s open mouth. Their bodies trembled in scalding points of contact at mouth, belly and thigh.

Megatron pressed forward just as Optimus raised the hand on the sparkling to his face. His thumb rested at the corner of his optical socket, exactly as Orion had used to cradle his face before, and he groaned into the kiss.

The guttural sound shattered the last scraps of restraint, of control, and the large mechs surged against each other.

The kisses were addictive. Megaton felt as though he was discovering anew the glorious feel of lip, glossa and dente atop the intimacy of taste. Orion had been sweet and clean in his mouth, flavoured by the Iaconian fuel filtered and scrubbed atmosphere of the towers. Optimus tasted sweet still, but there was a sharper tang that he couldn’t get enough of. A rougher edge from dirtier energon and systems run hard and hot.

Megatron felt controlled _power_ in the hands that slid to hold his hips. Optimus nipped his jaw and then worked his mouth down his bared neck, hydraulics already working to lower him to his knees.

The coding flared urgent arousal. No foreplay. No time.

Megatron grabbed the mech’s smokestacks, arresting his descent with a moan.

“Just _give it to me_.”

The sound Optimus made in response was low and primal. He straightened, hands sweeping around Megatron to grasp and _lift_. Automatically wrapping his legs around the trim waist with a purr, Megatron let himself be carried backwards until his shoulders struck the wall. He and Orion had done this many times, but reverse. Now Optimus held him easily.

Megatron’s helm thunked back against the wall and his panel snapped open, hands solid on those convenient smokestacks. More kissing. A corresponding snick of metal.

Optimus shuddered with restraint. “It’s been some time.”

Megatron grinned, tightening his knees to move. His body sang. There was no discomfort in his frame, no trepidation in his spark. He caught the tip of the blunt spike with the edge of his valve.

“I think I remember.”

Then he sank down and Optimus met his valve with a cry, snapping his hips. They fit together deep and perfect. 

There was no hesitation, no pause to adjust or absorb the flood of sensation and sheer feeling the connection brought about. Megatron dug his heels against some edge of armour and rolled his hips into each thrust, drawing Optimus in with each motion – firm and fast but not joltingly hard. He felt numb and electrified, absent everywhere in his frame but for the white furnace of pleasure. 

Optimus’s helm fell against his shoulder as if in supplication, hunched with single-minded intent and moaning in sobs. 

It felt so good it was unnatural, terrifying like the first millisecond of a sudden fall.

All of Megatron’s vents blasted open at once, sucking in air with an almighty gasp that arched his back and tightened his valve. His hands clawed down Optimus’s stacks and across his shoulders, pushing back into the wall and bracing on the razor’s edge of overload. Optimus’s face contorted in pain, dente bared, and he cried out something between pain and ecstasy as he crushed their hips together.

The code lit up as transfluid was recognised, and Megatron felt his valve contract in ripples that made both of them gasp as every trace was drawn up. The imminent overload -a breath out of reach- was agony. He was blind; wasn’t sure if his optics were even online. He _needed_ …

“ _More…_ ” Primus help him, from this mech of all, he needed _more_.

Optimus took him from the wall, gasping, but still steady and solid. An arm cradled Megatron’s back as he was carried, though he couldn’t orient his body in space until his knees touched the floor. Blindly setting his hands on the mech’s chassis, Megatron leant forward and spread his legs that bit wider. 

Helm tipped back, hands taking a vice grip of solid thighs, Optimus drove his hips up again with a vigour and force of will that was not his own. Megatron could feel the mechanical nature of it: the coded-compulsion in a spent frame that smelt like ozone and burnt fuses. He needed it, needed the overload that he suddenly feared he’d never reach. Needed this mech against him, in him. 

His valve spasmed again, tightening with an electric pulse that dragged another overload out of Optimus so hard that it made the Prime’s voice hoarse. The code lit up again at the second, smaller reading of transfluid and then finally tripped his circuits into a climax so complete and encompassing that he thought it would kill him. He was screaming, crying, gasping breathless and silent, flying, falling and dead all at once.

***  
Megatron jerked like he’d been shot, knees drawing up and knees pressing together. He lay gasping and tingling, fighting to separate the phantom sensations from reality and terrifyingly uncertain as to what had happened. 

His panel was open to the air and his valve throbbed so hard it was frightening. Lubricant had soaked his plating and the berth beneath him. He felt sick, spark pulsing too fast to be normal, and his hands shook where they’d curled drawn up against his chassis. 

Shuttering his optics in an attempt to quell the sensations, to take some mastery over the mangled mess of panic and confusion, Megatron summoned the command to close his panel. The first twitch of metal made him shout, the sound aborted by the fist he pressed to his mouth. His valve _burned_ so raw, so bright with pain it was as if it had been cut away. 

The mesh was just too swollen and sensitive. He cast about for some kind of covering, suddenly feeling watched and exposed, but saw nothing he could use. Bringing his thighs together hurt but less than trying to close his cover had, and Megatron pressed a hand over his optics and focussed on the pain. Tried to get inside it to quell it, own it, and pull it around himself like a shield against the sick sense of _longing_ that endured in his gut.

****

Arriving twenty minutes late to the meeting, Ratchet was unsurprised that they had started without him. Optimus, Ironhide and Prowl were in their usual seats closest to the viewscreen. Red Alert was on the screen, his face lit by the glow of his vast bank of monitors. No one looked away from him as the medic took his seat.

“Do we know yet if there have been any further orders given on such a scale?” Optimus asked, the baritone rumble of his voice as tense as his field.

Prowl pinged Ratchet on a short-range channel before sending him a brief summary. ::Mass executions of Autobot captives in the last eight hours in multiple locations. Some were in the late stages of negotiated release by their sub-commanders. Red Alert believes it is a fleet-wide order.::

“Primus…” Ratchet breathed as he rubbed between his optics, helm bowed. ‘Mass’ was hardly specific, but when Prowl used it he could safely assume that it meant a hideous number. One prisoner executed was too many, of course, but ‘mass’ defied belief.

“I’ve received further evidence that this is a coordinated attack,” Red Alert went on, helm tipping as he looked up at something to the left. The shadows on his face flickered as the surrounding screens changed at a speed and frequency beyond what an ordinary processor could absorb. “Lathroscope, a psychiatrist currently working as a negotiator on Mylar II, reports receiving an off-the-record remark from a Decepticon guard that there are to be no Autobot prisoners to be left alive anywhere by the end of the cycle.” 

Ironhide looked between Optimus and Red Alert, speaking to them both. “We have to warn them,” he said, voice thick. Prisoners of war were almost always soldiers. “Maybe some of them-”

“Of course,” Optimus affirmed. “Red Alert, send a communique across the fleet warning them of what’s happening.”

“I have already forwarded on these reports to the command staff of every Autobot facility.” It was a little beyond Red Alert’s remit to disseminate on such a scale without prior authorisation, and spoke to the severity of the situation and the rapid response required that he had overstepped his bounds. 

Any concern Red Alert may have had about a reprimand were far from his thoughts. His mouth was a firm line of concentration, now slanting in regret as he went on: “But we may be too late. These reports are coming in after the fact, often following the ensuing firefights. Likely the executions have already taken place.”

Optimus cycled a ventilation at that, and watched as Red Alert sat back in his chair to indicate that he had concluded his report. A beat of silence, and then the Prime could only thank the mech for his quick thinking and order that he be kept informed of any further developments.

As soon as the screen turned black, Prowl folded his hands tidily atop of the table. “This could be in response to Tigan.”

There was an immediate stiffening about the room; interest and dread piqued in equal measure. It had yet to be confirmed what exactly Tigan had been: weapons manufacturing plant or triage camp.

Optimus sat forward and mirrored Prowl’s posture, interlacing his fingers. “Explain.”

Prowl, alarmingly, hesitated. He seemed to take a moment to compose himself before raising his chin and addressing Optimus with singular focus. “Megatron’s assertions were correct. The intelligence received that triggered the attack was… compromised.” 

Ironhide’s helm tipped back into the headrest, jaw clenched. Ratchet looked as though he might purge, a fist pressed to his mouth.

Prowl’s doorwings twitched but he was otherwise motionless. “Two of the informants were formerly of the same cohort, which is why we received corroborating reports from two different divisions. The third was an early Decepticon defector, and they were also the mecha who’d suggested that the triage camp might have been a cover story. They alleged that this tactic has been used before. All three had recently suffered losses in other skirmishes. They are in custody, and will be transported to Ultra Magnus’s jurisdiction.”

“Primus.” Optimus’s optics were large and bright above his mask, which did little to obfuscate his shock and horror. 

Ratchet stared at the side of Prowl’s helm, his expression beginning to kindle towards rage. “Eight thousand wounded and medics because of _misinformation?_ ”

Optimus raised his hand to quell the doctor’s ire – or at least postpone it. “Dispatch any nearby ships to recover survivors, and offer any aid we possibly can.”

Prowl’s fingers were already flying across his pad. “Of course. The Challenger and Guardsman are within the system.”

Before the tactician could go on, Ironhide spoke up. “Do you think these executions are in response to Tigan?”

Prowl looked up from the pad, his optical ridges raised fractionally. “Are you suggesting that the execution of prisoners of war is in response to Megatron’s capture, as opposed to Tigan?” Though it was mild in his inflection, his scepticism was clear.

Optimus shook his head, decided that the cause was less important than what they decided to do now. They could reflect later when things were beginning to be dealt with. “We must seek out the Nemesis. Speak to Starscream and Soundwave and negotiate some kind of ceasefire whilst Tigan is investigated-”

Ironhide slammed his hand on the table, startling everyone. “Yeh need ta return Megatron before things get any worse.”

There was a stunned silence as the outburst sunk into their audios. Prowl’s doorwings were stiff and high with agitation whilst Ratchet’s expression was carefully neutral. Optimus continued to stare at Ironhide, unreadable behind the mask, before quietly asking: “What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s about more than bombing the wrong target. It’s not the first time it’s happened in war, and it won’t be the last; but we’ve got the carrier of Soundwave’s sparkling,” Ironhide said, stabbing a single blunt finger into the glossy surface for emphasis. A glance about the table, addressing everyone. “If Megatron was just the Decepticon Commander, there’d be shots fired but nothing like this. And did yeh see that report saying it looks like Gideon’s Glue been used on a scout party?” 

The old warrior shook his head, expression dark as he sat back in the chair. “The Cons are just getting started.” 

Prowl pursed his lips and set his datapad down with such deliberate care that it was soundless against the table. The pause and brightness of his optics indicated a flurry of simultaneous processor threads. He framed the pad with his thumbs and forefingers before finally looking up, directing his reply to Ironhide. “What we know of Soundwave is that he is highly focussed, pragmatic and possessed of great self-control. He balances Starscream’s volatile impulses within the command team.”

Ironhide turned out his hand, not disagreeing but redirecting the theory. “Starscream hasn’t ever been one to turn away from a chance to wreak destruction. If Soundwave isn’t reeling him in, or is actually encouraging him…”

The tactician shook his helm with a frown. “This is still highly uncharacteristic of him.”

“Soundwave’s the sire, and it ain’t just carriers who get affected by generation coding. Core coding like this is near impossible to ignore,” Ironhide said, leaning forward into the desk as if emphasising his words with the mass of his frame. With a pointed look to Optimus, he added: “As the only mecha in this room who’s done this, trust me.”

Optimus shuttered his optics, feeling suddenly a fool for missing the obvious. Ironhide had been sparked into the military, which for millennia had supported its numbers through in-house population. He would have had a sparkling sired upon him by an officer during his first year of technical training, and then sired one himself once promoted. It was not something Ironhide had ever talked about, but he was familiar enough with military protocol and tradition to know that a warrior of Ironhide’s age, experience and rank would have been both a carrier and sire at some point.

Prowl folded his hands back in his lap, yielding. “On this point,” he conceded, “you possess a degree of insight unmatched by anyone else who is aware of Megatron’s condition and presence on the Ark.”

Ironhide waved Prowl off, reaching into a thin storage hatch on his thigh and withdrawing a battered datapad. It was rust coloured and unfamiliar, clearly originating from outside of the Ark. They watched as he seemed to consider the device with unease before speaking again.

“I got hold of this.” Ironhide slid it out into the middle of the table, as if he was disturbed by holding the thing any longer than necessary. “Wasn’t going to bring it up today after what Red Alert was telling us, but ah think yeh should all read it.”

The pad was closest to Ratchet, but he waited for Optimus to inspect it first. Finding the screen already loaded, only dark, Optimus read the title aloud. “Psyche-coding and Decentralised Carriage: Risk and Code Management – Concept to Implementation.”

Ironhide sat back in the chair again, crossing his arms. “According to the military brass, the Council and the government, that document doesn’t exist. I only knew about it as a rumour. It being completely redundant now’s the only reason I could get hold of it.”

Ratchet watched as Optimus scrolled through the document with a deepening frown. “What is it?”

“The research behind Nova Prime’s plan to have the military populate itself, and the protocol it followed,” Ironhide replied. “Anyone who wanted a shot at being an officer in the future had’ta carry. Officers sired. If yeh just wanted to be a grunt, you could skip straight over into basic training. Took a long time for them to get it right, and longer still for it to be accepted as just ‘the culture’.”

“Forced breeding,” Optimus murmured with a dark look. “Barbaric.” He extended the padd to Ratchet’s waiting hand. 

“Such material would be highly inflammatory to Decepticon sympathisers, government sceptics and military mechs dissatisfied with such management,” Prowl said, already appearing as dubious about the padd as Ironhide had been. “Its contents cannot become general knowledge.”

“It doesn’t leave this room,” Optimus added firmly.

Ratchet rubbed his fingers across his forehead as he read, scrolling down the screen with his thumb. “It’s a comprehensive clinical protocol. Multi-disciplinary theory and formulae. A lot of case studies.” He stopped suddenly, optics widening. “Primus.”

“Yeah: it’s those early ones I thought you should read,” Ironhide said in a low drawl. “The ones where the sires were left too long to form a bond before the carriers were shipped off and the code went straight up ballistic. Thought it could give yeh some clue into what’s happening with Soundwave right now.”

“How did you get this?” Optimus asked.

“You ever heard of plausible deniability?”

“If this information has been obtained through illegal channels, Ironhide, it is essential that I am informed.”

“Just straightforward bribery and calling in favours, Prowl. Don’t fret about the how.”

Ratchet only had half an audio on the conversation around the table, processing the contents of the pad. It was transfer protected, meaning that the only way to safely absorb the data was to physically read it. It wasn’t the first time he’d encountered research rooted in the suffering of others, but if something positive could come out of what had happened to these soldiers… Appalling as the meticulous reports were, there was a wealth of new information in their details. Ratchet had never seen a study of carriers and sires like this. Such trauma would never be inflicted under such close scrutiny by any moral physician. 

"How does the coding work? Do they…” Optimus groped for the words with a grimace. “Not realise what they're doing?"

Ironhide fidgeted minutely, his gaze skimming about before finally meeting the Prime’s. It was obvious he was unused to putting these things into words. "No, it's more subtle than that. It's... coercive. It's thoughts and feelings that just turn how you think around. It's not mind control, but it definitely affects logic and reasoning. You'll talk yourself into, or out of, anything to do what the coding says needs doing."

Optimus was uncannily still, barely ventilating. "Like what?"

The broad mech looked away, jaw tight and field rough and raw as a stripped gear. Instead of answering directly, Ironhide nodded towards the pad Ratchet was still reading.

“The carriers and the officers who’d sired on them were lodged at a different facility to the rest of the rank and file. For the officers… They’d either have to be separated as soon as they’d conceived to dodge the coding, or stay for the duration and meet the transfluid needs.”

Prowl’s helm twitched to one side. “Transfluid needs?”

“It’s an optional component of carrying,” Ratchet replied without looking up, seeing fit to spare Ironhide some of the focus. “Sparklings can be born healthy without any input, but it’s more taxing on the carrier and results in smaller, more fragile offspring.”

"How did the military manage?" Optimus asked, his voice still pitched low and quiet.

Ironhide didn’t notice Optimus’s tone, speaking towards the middle of the table. This was not a topic he’d ever spoken about – it was ingrained that non-soldiers simply wouldn’t understand, though reading the smuggled report had onlined his optics to the fact that that had been part of the conditioning.

"It depended on where you were. In peacetime, an officer would live near the cadet they'd sired on and see them every cycle to meet the demands of the carriage. It's a resource heavy way of doing it, and wasn't that common.” He drew a hand across his jaw. “The usual way, the way I had it, was separation before conception was even confirmed. The officers came and went again inside a cycle, and the carriers stayed with their units who would be the ones to give transfluid, if the carrier wanted. That was always important: it all had to be consensual, all the time."

Consent within such a culture of coercion, to Optimus’s mind, didn’t sound entirely like consent as he knew it. His discomfiture was apparent despite his calm, not wishing to disturb Ironhide further than the older mech already was by exposing and challenging the customs of his earlier life.

"But the whole practice in the first place…" Optimus’s murmur trailed off as Ratchet finally held the padd back out to him. 

Ironhide cleared his vocaliser but didn’t speak. Prowl allowed the taut silence for three seconds.

“Given this, data, we can predict that further extreme acts of violence will be ordered by Decepticon Command as Soundwave retaliates and the faction’s most aggressive proclivities are unleashed.” Prowl turned towards Ratchet, his voice continuing in the same neutral tone. “Will Megatron’s sparkling be adversely affected by being kept away from its sire?”

Ratchet hesitated when he felt Optimus’s stare fall upon him. He measured his words carefully as he spoke, knowing full well that he’d be having a far more explicit repeat of this conversation with the Prime when they were alone. “Not long term, as this point, but the longer he’s kept here the more is going to be leeched straight from his frame. Which is to say nothing about the accumulating risks coming from stressing a carrier this much. Honestly Megatron’s health is more of a concern than the sparkling’s right now.”

The meeting lasted another half hour, concluding in the reluctant decision that Prowl leave the Ark to conduct the investigation into Tigan personally, from the bottom up, as none of them felt that they were truly at the bottom of it. A difficult decision, but a necessary one.

As was becoming usual, Ratchet and Optimus lingered behind after Ironhide and Prowl left. In the too-large room at the table that felt like a wedge between them, the Prime dragged a hand across his optics. The battered old datapadd remained in front of him, innocuous despite its contents. Optimus felt lost in his armour, his tank cold and mesh hollow and prickling.

“I must ask, Ratchet,” he began haltingly, meeting his friend’s stare with grim effort. "Could the sire coding be affecting me? I only recently learned of Megatron's status..."

Ratchet propped one elbow on the table, optics drawn back towards the document that had caused fresh upheaval. "It's hard to say,” he muttered, wishing that he could just lie on this one. “I don't think so. As you said: you've only recently found out, and the military was quite thorough in proving that immediate separation weakened the impact of sire coding."

Some of the tension eased out of Optimus’s struts, and his shoulders lowered as he extended a hand towards Ratchet. Were they closer he would have laid a hand across the medic’s gauntlet. "I would still appreciate your guidance, old friend.” His tone was utterly serious, captivating as his most powerful speeches. “If I say or do anything that could put the Autobots in jeopardy, or go against Megatron's wishes, because of the sire coding..."

Ratchet got to his feet and closed the gap, gripping Optimus’s wrist firmly. "I'll tell you, don't worry, and I’ll shift your aft if I need to, as well.” The peculiar cross between a grimace and a smile that was wholly the medic’s slid into a downturn of one side of his mouth. Softer, though still firm, he went on: “It'd be best if you're not alone when you see him. He's... in a fragile state at the moment. If the coding was in play on both sides..."

Optimus looked down at the solid hand resting on his gauntlet, releasing a hot vent. "I understand. And thank you."

These were difficult conversations, troubling to even contemplate, but he trusted in Ratchet’s commitment and skill. In all regards. 

 

****

It took a long time lying stiff and trembling on the berth before Megatron could ease his cover closed across his valve. There was still an uncomfortable burn atop the throbbing ache, but it had eased to a tolerable level. With the cramps still held at bay by the after-effects of Ratchet’s flexomation therapy, he was able to move off of the berth and check the storage units against the wall again. 

Ratchet had been leaving cubes of energon and coolant behind, so it stood to reason that he may have trusted to put more equipment within reach of his Decepticon patient-come-prisoner. There wasn’t much to find, but Megatron was relieved to uncover a thick wad of mesh cloths and a bottle of solvent. With gritted dente, he cleaned the smeared lubricant from himself and made a half-sparked sweep of the top of the berth.

The simple task exhausted him. Shoving the soiled cloths and remaining solvent back into the drawer he’d found them, he’d dragged himself back onto the berth and curled on his side. Lying on his back settled the gestation tank fully into his internals, which in turn pressed outwards against the seeping wound in his middle. Being on his side reduced the pressure and kept his autorepair ticking along, but was far from comfortable otherwise. Weariness had rooted in his struts, but it was not enough to pull him into recharge – especially after such a vivid dream.

He knew that he ought to take fuel, but even that felt beyond him.

 

the door opened again. It was not Ratchet but Scope, the doctor’s assistant, who entered. She was hesitant, evidenced in the overly tight grip she had on the container in her hands, but her expression was calm and her movements certain. Setting the lidless box to one side, Scope did a quick scan for an empty energon cube before regarding her patient.

“Ratchet wasn’t joking when he said he’d put you back on the drip if you don’t fuel yourself,” she said, reaching for one of the prepared cubes. “Can you sit up? I’ve got straws, if not.”

He couldn’t tell if she was serious, and an unwillingness to find out was enough of a push to make Megatron brace an elbow against the berth. Taking the cube handed to him, he broke the seal with his thumb and braced for the impending nausea. When it didn’t come in response to the chemically-rich fumes seeping up from the mix, Megatron drained the cube in two long swallows. 

“That’s good.” Scope’s hand was ready to take the empty cube back when he was finished. Setting it aside, she reached into the container. “Brought you some things to make you more comfortable.”

The tarp she produced was thick but of a material that dissipated heat rather than trapped it – giving the weight of a covering without lending to overheating. Beneath the folded metalmesh, Scope held two black wedge-like pillows. She stood for a moment at the Decepticon Commander’s hip, hands stiff around the materials and helm bowed. “I can leave them on the side if you’d rather, but you need to get as much rest as you can, and lying on a barely adjustable recliner isn’t enough at this point.”

Megatron looked her over, from the blocky treads weighing heavy behind her shoulders, to the broad, blunt tips of her fingers. “You’re not a doctor.”

Scope twitched one massive shoulder up in a shrug. “Trainee. I was a field medic.”

A soldier, Megatron supplied with a note of satisfaction. He had far more experience with soldiers than he did with doctors of Ratchet’s ilk. Shifting on the berth a little, he pressed a hand into his gored side though it was not the wound he was indicating. “You’ve done this before.”

A slight nod, and now Scope’s chin raised with a defiant kind of pride. “Had my sights set on being an officer. Didn’t work out.”

Her expression, familiar to him from years of recruiting to his cause, was what coaxed Megatron to reach out. Slowly, as if sceptical, he accepted her offering in a single hand. 

Scope nodded to the cushions when he’d taken them, tucking her hands behind her back in a pose reminiscent of parade rest. “Try putting the wide edge at the front of your knees,” she offered gruffly. “Straightens out the struts better, I found.”

He would not thank her, his keeper, but Megatron grunted to acknowledge her advice. When the door had closed again, he threw the tarp out across hip hips and set about arranging the cushions. They slid into place easily between his thighs and beneath the heavy swell of his middle, clearly designed for carriers.

It was a weakness to accept such treatment. He was playing into their hands by seeming vulnerable. But he was so tired, in every respect, and the sacrifice to achieve a grain of comfort was dreadfully worth it.


	38. Periphery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay in posting this. I'm working 40-something hour weeks and just finding the time to write, let alone the energy, is a challenge. Thank you so much to everyone who's still reading, and particularly to everyone who has left kudos and comments. It's a great boost to see that other folk are enjoying this.

Starscream had summoned Knock Out to the bridge when a puddle had formed beneath Soundwave. A cursory glance had put the source at the static mech’s knee joints and the sockets from which his datacables extended – all slow leaks, but gone unnoticed through the complete avoidance of that particular corner of the command deck.

He’d cleared the room for the visit. In part it was because any necessary examination was likely to take place very publicly given that Soundwave had practically welded himself to the console. The Command Team ought to be indomitable, untouchable and powerful despite whatever hardship the crew was going through. There was also the matter of the emotion-rooted psychology behind Soundwave’s behaviour, which Starscream was loath to air. 

Electing to stretch his own struts whilst the doctor was present, Starscream lurked at the end of the console bank and watched as Knock Out found somewhere dry to stand. 

“I don’t know how he can be leaking,” he remarked, folding his arms. “It’s not as though any of us could put a straw in his intake.”

“Yes, Breakdown told me that he’d visited with a drip the other night cycle.” Knock Out tilted his head with a grimace at his readings, then began readjusting the scanner as if it were some great chore. “This is what running off the mainframe does to a bot: I’m going to have to overhaul his whole damn neural net at this rate. Has anyone actually attempted to… _unplug_ him?”

“Yes,” Starscream replied slowly, casting an apprehensive look towards the ceiling. “Apparently there’s some sort electrical discharge point up there that can be focalised and directed.”

Knock Out was silent a moment. Finally he looked up with a frown. “You mean like a, a ray gun?”

“Like a ray gun, doctor.” Starscream folded his arms and took a delicate step to one side, scowling at the mess creeping out of the Decepticon Third’s seams. “What _is_ that?”

The medic deactivated his scanner with a shrug. “Bit of this, bit of that. Oil, lubricant, some melted circuitry and neural sheath.” With an arched brow, he tapped the flat plane of Soundwave’s arm with one finger. “Further evidence that you need to stop this, Commander, lest I pull rank as Chief Medical Officer and have you sedated.”

Starscream’s optics flicked up to the ceiling, though the apprehension was short-lived. His wings slid back up, and he hummed a smirk at the medic. “Apparently you’re not enough of a threat to warrant a ray gun.”

“Hrm.” He produced a slender instrument from his subspace and gently slid it into Soundwave’s diagnostic port, using the device as a go-between so that he wouldn’t find himself linked up to the Nemesis as well via plugging in to the Commander.

The Seeker watched Knock Out fiddle with the device for a full ten seconds before pointing at Soundwave with a growl. “He cannot do this until Megatron gets back, surely.”

“One would hope,” Knock Out remarked without looking up. “Going against generative coding can be an uphill battle in and of itself even without getting into loyalty and” -he flicked a slim, dismissive hand as if batting away an insect- “ _affection._ ”

Starscream’s wings jerked vertical, optics wide. “This is because of Sire coding, then? He’s actually got it?”

Knock Out sighed and looked up from his calibrations, resigned to being kept from doing the very work Starscream had summoned him for in lieu of giving a reproductive lesson. “Sire coding isn’t just triggered by conception. Breakdown’s been doing a study on how the coding develops even when the mech in question isn’t a progenitor.”

The Seeker folded his arms, one claw coming to tap against his jaw. His stare remained fixed on Soundwave’s blank screen. “Would it even be able to tell if a sparkling was genetically related?”

Knock Out shrugged, twisting the instrument between his fingers. “Studies suggest that, unless the mech was completely unaware of the conception: yes. The unconscious subprocessor is a fascinating thing. We still don’t fully understand how it all works. Just like memories can be suppressed through trauma, or edited -even completely rewritten- by a mnemosurgeon, information can also exist without ever entering conscious awareness,” he said, tapping his temple. “A mech can unconsciously calculate the likelihood of being a progenitor based upon interfacing history and whatever is known about the carriage at the time, and the sire coding will build on whatever real likelihood there is and keep building on it with every interaction.”

“And in Soundwave’s case?” Starscream pressed, optics narrowed with interest.

A frown and then Knock Out bowed his helm, considering his words. He gave the silent mech a long look before finally answering Starscream. “Soundwave is the sire of Megatron’s sparkling in everything but initial conception. The coding is full throttle.”

Starscream made a small sound, surprised at how unsurprising that was. He planted his hands on his hip faring, chin raised. “It never affected me like that.”

Knock Out smirked. “That’s perhaps because, at least unconsciously, you knew you weren’t going to go into that role. After all, someone needs to be in charge, Commander.”

Returning the smile, Starscream’s reply was a low purr. “True, Knock Out.” 

Satisfied that the doctor had the situation in hand, Starscream turned on his heel and meandered back towards the command-chair-come-throne. He sat with the easy elegance of his origins, folding one knee delicately across the other. Clawtips smoothing over the armrests, he swept his optics across the bridge with a high helm.

“Quite true.”

****

Optimus’s processor was still buzzing from the meeting, aching with the effort to partition his feelings, his tactical threads and the way ahead. The executions; the text on managing sire protocols during coerced military breeding; and Megatron’s lingering state all mixed and pressed upon his mind. 

It had seemed too simplistic for Ironhide to say that just giving the Deception Commander back to the flagship would stop the unprecedented savagery from getting worse, but the idea was gaining merit the more he thought about it. This had been an illegal capture, and the longer Megatron remained here, the greater the ramifications. Optimus _knew_ that.

And yet the thought of seeing Megatron’s sparkling-heavy frame vanish into a spacebridge made him feel physically sick, and there were a dozen reasons why just _bending_ legality in this instance could be for the greater good. If they could talk, one military leader to another, there was the real chance of brokering a ceasefire. Even if it were only temporary, it would save lives. 

They could negotiate borders if Megatron wanted to maintain his faction’s autonomy. 

They could repair some of the rifts that had torn their people apart. 

Their sparkling could be born into peace.

He’d already been heading towards the medical bay, but now Optimus found his back straighter and strides longer as his spark was buoyed with new anticipation and hope.

There was only the smallest disruption in his steps when he rounded a corner and found Jazz leaning against the wall opposite the side entrance, arms folded and helm tilted as if he’d been watching the whole time. Optimus came to stand between the spec ops agent and the door. It was the first time he’d seen the mech since Prowl had dragged him away. Since Jazz had brought Megatron onto the Ark bleeding and half-dead.

Jazz’s arms dropped to his sides as he pushed away from the wall. His expression was unreadable beneath the visor, field smooth and impenetrable. “Thought it was time we talked,” he said, and nodded towards the door Optimus was blocking.

This entrance went to the back of the medbay – largely storage and surgical areas – and was seldom used. It also led a winding path to Megatron that completely circumvented the regularly-populated parts of the medbay, which was why Jazz had staked it out. 

It would give them more privacy than the public corridor, Optimus reasoned, and wouldn’t be leading him away from Megatron to a side-office. With a short nod of assent, the Prime triggered the door to open and led them inside.

“Past time, I fear,” he replied in agreement once Jazz was over the threshold. The door shut and locked automatically behind them. Optimus regarded the black and white mech evenly. “Where have you been?”

 _Since you dumped the Deception Commander- come- bleeding carrier at my pedes,_ Jazz added privately. He raised his chin and kept his optics, unseen as they were, on the Prime’s face. Optimus had again put himself in the way of a route towards Megatron, and he wasn’t going to draw attention to that. 

“Debriefing,” he replied with a wry little smile, testing the waters. When Optimus’s optics shaded a micron darker, Jazz returned his expression to a grey neutrality. “Prowl’s post-mission sessions were extra involved on this occasion.”

Optimus nodded, aware that Prowl had been putting in extra hours on evaluating Jazz’s mission in addition to the Decepticon’s latest actions. Spec Ops was highly insular and operated like a black box: results came out, but no one knew what machinations took place inside to produce them. It was not a box that Optimus liked, and much as he could appreciate its usefulness, he hated to see it utilised.

Such autonomy demanded internal scrutiny and regulation, which was why Prowl was ultimately in charge of the division. His tactical processor and diminished emotional subroutines made him uniquely impartial, impossible to corrupt and ultimately trustworthy. Prowl had submitted a formal report four days ago of the events leading up to Megatron’s arrival on the Ark. It had been neutral, reliably accurate and highly detailed. The type of blade, angle of penetration and how deeply it had entered the carrier’s side had had a dedicated paragraph.

Dry as the writing was, the report had been inflammatory, largely because there had been no indication that Jazz had done anything _wrong_. The debriefings were, ultimately, about assessing whether the actions were warranted each step of the way. Spec Ops operated outside of standard operating procedure, but they were not above the law. 

Optimus had not yet had a chance to speak to Prowl privately about it. Now, unexpectedly faced with the agent himself, he could not help but ask: “And the verdict?” 

It was clear what exactly he was referring to. 

Jazz stared up at the taller mech, impassive. “Justifiable.”

Optimus cycled a tightly controlled ventilation. It was one of the more troublesome Spec-Op’s terms. There were right actions, wrong actions, and ones that could be _justified_ one way or another - depending on what was required. 

When Optimus didn’t respond, and determining that nothing productive would come from having that argument, Jazz tucked his hands behind his back. The day-to-day operations of the department fell to Jazz in Prowl’s stead, and with Prowl departing the Ark to investigate the Tigan mess… 

“I need to talk to you about Megatron.”

Optimus was motionless, and yet there was a sudden tension in his frame. “Go on.”

 _In for a chip…_ Jazz maintained parade rest as he spoke, a seldom-seen degree of professionalism whilst it was just the two of them. “Contact needs to be made with the Nemesis as soon as possible. They need to be assured of their Commander’s condition and safety.”

The Prime was prompt to nod. “I agree, but I cannot allow this opportunity to slip by. I need to speak to Megatron first, to try to negotiate a peace.”

Behind the visor, Jazz arched a brow. Somehow the expression was communicated through the slant of his mouth and the angle of his doorwings. “It’s taken a while, Prime,” he observed gently.

Optimus inclined his helm as if bristled; calmly answering an impertinent question. “He has not been medically fit to speak with until now.”

Jazz was an expert at reading liars, and had a particular talent for picking apart half-lies and answers that, whilst true, weren’t a complete fit for the question asked. 

“Prowl doesn’t want to keep Megatron on the Ark, let alone a prisoner, because of the political ramifications. And here he still is.” He looked past Optimus’s side as if Megatron were visible at the end of the corridor, then met those suddenly-steely optics once again. “Someone should have reached out to the Nemesis to tell the alleged sire that Megatron and the sparkling are alright. And yet no one has. Someone could argue that you’re keeping him for yourself.”

“You are overstepping yourself, Lieutenant,” Optimus bit out, taking a single step forward. “Furthermore, my decision to keep Megatron on-board is not your business.”

To his credit, Jazz didn’t hesitate for the increased proximity. He merely lowered his hands from a formal pose down to his sides. Loose but ready. “Spec Ops put Megatron on this ship, so that makes it very much my business.

Rankled further, Optimus clenched his jaw in an attempt to quell his temper before speaking. “As the agent to bring him in, you are too close to judge. Recent events have coloured your judgement.”

“Funny,” Jazz drawled, mouth twisting up on one side. “I was gonna say the same to you.”

Optimus clenched his fists. “Jazz…” The utterance was low and thick with warning.

Jazz took a bold step forward, helm craned back to meet the Commander’s heated stare. “Was he lying?” 

“Jazz.”

“Was he desperate enough to lie when I had a knife in his belly? Or to tell the truth?”

Optimus began to turn away, to retreat down the corridor towards Megatron before the roar in his audios got the better of him. “Not now, Jazz.”

Jazz hounded the mech without touching him, shoulders tight and voice raised. “Cuz I didn’t need to read Ratchet’s report to know I was half an inch from spilling that bitlet all over-”

Optimus slammed him into the wall. Jazz grabbed his wrist in both hands, keeping himself from dangling by the neck and aligning his fingers to the pertinent pressure points. He smiled like he was trying not to purge. “There you are.”

As abruptly as the flash-fire rage had struck it vanished, leaving Optimus trembling in shock as he held Jazz against the wall in one powerful hand. He jerked the mech back down to the floor and took a halting step back.

Jazz spoke before Optimus could say anything. “Coding. It all comes down to the numbers. Everything we are, everything we strive for – it’s all build on code.” He shuttered his optics and ran a hand across his helm. “Soundwave’s not the sire.”

Optimus was in agony. Guilt for his uncharacteristically violent outburst was tangled with shock that he had erupted so suddenly. Atop both was the awful realisation that he was under the powerful influence of sire coding, and likely had been for some time. “Jazz, I’m so sorry-”

The saboteur waved him off, well-rehearsed in downplaying a situation as needed. “It’s okay, Optimus. It’s alright.” 

Somehow, despite the lingering suspicion that Optimus was the sparkling’s progenitor since Megatron’s declaration, actually having it confirmed was like being punched in the gut. Jazz set his hands on his hips, squeezing his armour, then folded his arms roughly as the attack replayed in his mind. Even though he’d gone over every micron of it with Prowl, the knowledge that it had been his friend and leader’s sparkling he’d almost carved up cast a sickening light.

“Primus, I almost-”

Optimus cut him off with a grimace. “You did what you needed to.” A firm ventilation, and he straightened. “Just as I must.”

Jazz glanced along the corridor again, doorwings twitching. “Yeah, I get that Boss, but having him here is even more dangerous than if the sparkling was Soundwave’s.” Then, quieter: “It’s getting to you.” 

It was a damning statement, in part as it followed so closed to the realisation itself, and Optimus shuttered his optics. He and Megatron had conceived in the last days of peace. Had the war not happened, he would have been overjoyed. He’d have cherished the new life his lover nurtured, built his future around their family cohort. 

Their division was so recent the possibility was almost tangible, and now Optimus knew that the insidious coding was stoking those dreams and desires. It could not be allowed to influence him. His personal life, his history, could have no bearing on his role as Autobot Commander. And yet Megatron had kept the sparkling, kept some part of _them_ , and if that could be some key to stopping the war that was tearing their very species apart…

Jazz put a hand on Optimus’s gauntlet, drawing him out of his reverie. “Let us contact the Nemesis, or at least let them find us. Send out our co-ordinates.”

Optimus stared a long moment, focusing on the weight and warmth of Jazz’s hand, and finally nodded. It was harder than it should have been to assent. “Alright. Let them find us and speak to us.”

“Good.” Jazz squeezed his fingers before withdrawing his hand. His field pulsed reassuring encouragement. “You’d better go talk to him, then. Just be careful.”

Murmuring an assurance and his thanks, Optimus watched Jazz return to the door and let himself out. When the mech was gone, he pressed his fingertips against his optical covers and concentrating on regulating his systems. After a minute, he felt steady enough to turn towards his destination and start walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Optimus and Megatron finally talk. Finally.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	39. Summit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay in this update. There's been a massive upheaval at home and it'll be a while before things are settled. But I'm still writing and loving this! I'll try to get the next chapter out quicker. Thank you to everyone who's been reading, re-reading and especially to those who have been leaving their thoughts in a comment! <3

Ratchet stood with his back to Megatron’s door, soldering something small and important whilst he waited. He had cameras on all the corridors leading to this room, and had known about Optimus’s approach the moment he’d stepped into the passageway. He’d also witnessed Jazz’s much-needed if tactless highlight of the sire coding, and was still mulling over the repercussions of that when the Prime turned the corner.

He subspaced the cranial linkage as he looked up, casting a steady eye over his Commander. Even on a subtle medical scan, Optimus seemed normal. It was small things over the last week that indicated the growing influence of the sire coding – all seeming much more significant and obvious with the benefit of retrospect

Since Ironhide had brought the incriminating military dossier to his attention, he’d been convincing himself that the odds of Optimus being subject to sire coding were remote. He’d not known about the sparkling long enough, for a start. 

And yet, the signs were there – in everything Jazz had said and more. Ratchet felt a fool for not seeing it.

But then, he’d grudgingly admitted, he hadn’t _wanted_ to. 

Optimus met his gaze boldly, resolved, and went to go past him to the door. Careful not to outright block the mech’s path, Ratchet lay a hand on his arm and was grateful that was enough to make him stand still.

Ratchet kept his hand on Optimus’s arm, conveying his concern through field and the warmth of his touch. “Are you alright?”

“I need to speak to him,” the taller mech replied, ignoring the question entirely. 

Ratchet sighed and squeezed his fingers before dropping his hand. This meeting had always been inevitable and necessary, damned overdue at this point, but he couldn’t help but admit, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I know, and I appreciate your concern. Megatron must be returned to his ship, and the longer we leave until this meeting the less time we will have to talk. ”

Ratchet nodded slowly, retaining the professional mask of neutrality. Jazz deserved a cube of High Grade after the slap around the helm. “You’re right. I do, however, think I should be present.”

Optimus looked as though he was going to protest, optics narrowing and field tightening a scant but telling degree. The sting of Jazz’s words was still fresh, however, and he relented with an awkward glance to one side. “I believe that would be wise.”

“Good. I’ll check how he’s doing first. He’s… not been having a good time of it, and if he’s not up to seeing you now then you’ll have to wait.”

****

The lights were subdued to accommodate Megatron’s photosensitivity as much as to encourage recharge, though Ratchet had measured the levels carefully so as to avoid strong shadows and dark corners. He lingered in the doorway whilst his optics adjusted and took a preliminary reading, huffing that the carrier was even awake given the subdued state of his field and diminished energy outputs.

Megatron’s optics were narrowed and dimly lit, turned to face Ratchet and the door behind him. A dark blanket was pooled around his hips, accentuating the faded pallor of his mesh. He looked more like cold pitslag than a patient fit to receive visitors.

“He’s outside.”

Ratchet blinked, automatically glancing over his shoulder to check that the door was shut. Then he approached the berth, already raising his scanning arm. “How do you know?”

Megatron’s vents snorted. “A feeling.”

Pit damned carrier coding. Somehow Megatron’s field was sensitive and attuned enough to detect Optimus’s. Ratchet reviewed the sensor readings. Fuel tank at 28%; elevated core temperature; multiple systems running in the red; neural net alight in the pattern of cramping pains; manufacturing plant operating at 72% efficiency; and interface systems primed. 

Ratchet shook his head with a sigh. “I’ll send him away.”

“You will not,” Megatron barked before the medic could turn back. His hands gripped the edges of the berth, and he braced on his elbows to sit up. “I am not afraid of Optimus Prime.” 

Ratchet gave the carrier a long, measured stare – thoroughly unimpressed with the curl of his lip. He was more impressed by just how much scorn Megatron had managed to weigh into the single syllable of the title.

“I wouldn’t even imply that you were,” he said mildly as he approached the berth. In response to Megatron’s position, he thumbed the control in the backrest and elevated the angle to meet his backstrut. That Megatron immediately sank into the padding was further evidence of how run down he was.

“You’re in no state to-”

“I have the right to face my captor,” Megatron sneered, then turned his helm away to stare straight ahead. “Bring him to me.” His optics flickered at the outermost edges, pale and distorted, and the mesh about his neck tensed and twitched.

Ratchet stood silent and immovable, crossing his arms and continuing to scan at his leisure. The monitors in the berth captured a broad swathe of data, but it was all generalised. Like the Nemesis, the Ark hadn’t been designed with carriers in mind, and he would never trust more than the basics to such technology. His integrated scanning suite was passively active at all times – the bed was for when he was absent and an alarm needed to be raised.

Ratchet watched the spasm across his midriff reach a new apex and hold there through his sensors. Stress made them worse, and since Megatron refused to accept chemical suppressants…

It didn’t take more than another minute to wait Megatron out. The Decepticon shuttered his optics with a ragged exhale and clenched his jaw. “Ratchet.” Another ventilation and then he met the medic’s stare from the side of his optic, though his gaze was softer. “This isn’t going to go away. Better to have it done with.”

Now Ratchet looked away, not wishing to show pity or frustration. Megatron didn’t react when he said he’d be staying in the room and put a cube of fuel by the berth. The carrier still hadn’t moved after Ratchet had retreated to the door to fetch Optimus.

***

Once Ratchet had left, Megatron crushed the last of the antiemetic capsules and drained the cube as soon as the nausea had abated. His middle was a taut band of pain, reaching across his belly and digging into his backstrut like grappling hooks. Far from an ideal condition in which to face Optimus for the first time.

Megatron grunted to himself and set the empty cube aside. 

It seemed both an eternity and a few minutes since he’d last seen Optimus. Every time he shuttered his optics, the mech was there. In recharge, Optimus was between his thighs, in his mouth, whispering assurances into his audio that were so bewitching they still felt real when he awoke. The tender scenes were worse than the horrifying ones, in that respect. Harder to overcome. 

Awake, he knew that the Prime would not carve up his middle with a knife, or drain the sparkling out in a deluge of spatters and chunks from between his legs. Assurances of affection and promises of peace and kin were harder to dismiss, because Optimus _was_ the sort and the coding could be so damn _insidious_ …

Megatron clenched his jaw and pressed a hand over his optics. He did not believe in premonitions. Nothing that had happened in recharge or when his processor wandered would come to pass. Megatron was master of his own destiny, and he would carve the path that suited him – Prime and coding be damned.

The carrier cycled a deep vent, plates flexing about the bulk of the sparkling. He tracked the cool air as it was drawn into his body, sliding through his filters and splintering across his heatsinks. Exhaling opened his exhaust valves and released the minute gaseous by-products of energon conversion and coolant use in warm currents. 

The blanket across his lap shifted as he fidgeted his legs, adjusting himself to appear upright and alert. It was strange how much security the covering across his hips gave, though Megatron could still detect the signs of his own arousal. A warped need that defied want or conscious desire. It disgusted him, futile as the feeling was. It frightened him, also.

He tucked the edges beneath his thighs, and then smoothed the blanket with trembling hands as the door opened. 

Ratchet entered first, a larger mech right on his heels. Megatron had only confronted Optimus face-to-face a handful of times in battle and was still finding new details in his rebuild. This time, it was the thickness of the plates beneath the helm mount of his face mask. Of course he would have the mask withdrawn to fully expose himself, to emote and try to _connect_.

He braced himself. 

Megatron’s lip curled with a scoff before the door had closed again. “Well then, Optimus Prime. What is it that you have come to say to me?” 

The Prime seemed to be taken aback, hands twitching at his sides and exposed mouth tightening. Whilst Ratchet immediately took position against the door, the Autobot Commander obviously didn’t know where to put himself in the room. 

After a pause, Optimus came to stand two respectful steps from the bedside. His expression was one of concern. “How are you?”

A beat, and Megatron couldn’t keep himself from gaping. “How am I?” His hands curled into fists atop the blanket. “Gored and kidnapped from my own ship in a neutral dock, ignored and denied access to my commanders, and _that_ is what you ask me?”

Helm dipped, but not enough that Megatron missed the quick shutter of his optics, Optimus replied, “This is difficult -”

“Oh, my apologies,” Megatron drawled before he could continue. “You must not have had much time to consider what you’d say to me whilst I’ve been confined in here.”

Optimus took an unconscious, earnest step forward, grimacing when he saw the carrier tense. “Megatron, your capture was never the intention of the mission. Our agent was sent for information only – nothing further was sanctioned. When he was discovered, and learned of your condition in turn, he took what he believed to be appropriate action.”

Megatron eased back a little in the berth to parse that, though his fists continued to press down on the shield of the blanket. It was a simple, plausible explanation. Covert operations went awry, and when agents were uninstructed and alone, they’d take whatever they could get. 

He could believe that, were their positions reversed and Optimus had told a Decepticon spy that he bore Megatron’s sparkling, he’d sure as Pit want the mech dragged back for confirmation.

Megatron raised his chin, gaze cool. “And now? Will you interrogate me?”

“Of course not,” Optimus replied, clearly disturbed by the suggestion. “You’re… you’re a guest, not a prisoner.”

“Ha! And here I’d thought that the Matrix had stripped you of your sense of humour.” The band around his middle tightened again, and he grit his dente. “Instead it’s merely made it cruel.”

Optimus clenched his jaw, optics bright. “Megatron, please…”

“What?” he snapped, pain raising his voice. His ventilations quickened, and he sat forward on the berth as if meaning to prowl off and get into the Autobot’s face. “You’ve come to beg for my understanding? My patience? My cooperation?”

“Steady,” Ratchet rumbled. Forgotten by both mechs, he’d taken a step forward from the doorway.

Megatron didn’t even look at him. “Get out.”

“No.”

Megatron turned just enough to glare at the doctor. “You can monitor me just as well outside. I’m satisfied Optimus isn’t going to attempt to rape me. Leave us to speak.”

Ratchet looked between both mechs, his expression thick with warning, before telling them both: “Five minutes.” Then, to Megatron, “But if I don’t like your readings, Optimus leaves.”

Once Ratchet had gone, Optimus went to chair by the door. It was immovable, but he didn’t try to pull it closer to the berth. Once seated, leaning forward across his knees, he had to look up at Megatron. It made him look even more pained.

“Megatron, I would never-”

The carrier grunted, optics shuttered as a flash of heat and colour crossed his mind. He felt wretched, sick and tired and in pain, and yet wanted to drag the mech atop him. Shaking his helm with a grimace, he fixed his stare back on Optimus. “Say whatever it is you want to say.”

A nod, and Optimus considered the floor between his pedes as he composed himself. Finally, shoulders dropping, he looked up again. “I’m sorry, Megatron. I’m sorry you were brought here as you were, and that it has taken me so long to come to you to talk. It was wrong to leave you waiting as long as I have.” 

His mouth twitched and Megatron waited him out, irritated and intrigued by whatever Optimus was hesitating to say. 

Finally, quietly: “If I had known about the sparkling, I would have reached out to you immediately to meet and talk on even ground.”

“Because I am carrying.”

Optimus shutter-blinked at the flat statement. “Well yes.”

Megatron stared at him in silence for a long moment, then braced his hands against the berth. It was a long effort to sit up and ease his legs over the side of the berth, but worth the struggle for the straightened backstrut and greater vantage. 

“Understand me, Optimus Prime: We are not who we were before I stood before the Council. You are not Orion Pax, I am not Megatronus, and, we are not… involved.” He held one hand up between them, gesturing indirectly to the sparkling without taking his optics off the sitting mech. “This changes nothing between us.”

Optimus’s mouth opened with a ragged exhaled, shaking his head in disbelief. “How can it not? You’re carrying-”

“Don’t you dare say ‘my sparkling’,” Megatron growled as he rose to his pedes, dente bared. “It is not ‘your’ anything.”

The Prime shuttered his optics again and sat back in the chair. His hands shifted to clasp together between his legs. “It was not so long ago…. That we-”

“We fragged.” It was an important distinction in Megatron’s mind. The only tolerable one. He raised his chin. “We did not seek to conceive a child. You did not knowingly do that. When I discovered it, it was my decision _alone_ as to how to proceed. I have made that decision, without you, and carry it through, without you.”

Optimus’s expression was earnest, pained. “I want to help you.”

“And I neither want nor need you to,” Megatron replied simply. Though his expression remained stoic, inwardly he smiled at the fact. There was a bitterness that he was being kept from his network of support on the Nemesis, but he did not doubt that they were all there and bristling for his safe return. “There is nothing you can offer me that I do not already have, nor that I want.” 

The Prime’s mouth tightened as if he were holding back a protest, the powerful hydraulics leading up through his arms, shoulders and neck tensing. Finally, with an audible ex-vent, Optimus nodded once – decisively. 

Coding ran both ways, Megatron thought with disgust. He felt a little stab of pain that the sparkling’s sire had given up the fight so easily, and could trace the thought back to the insidious code that kept his gestation tank running chief amongst his systems.

Another rising cramp had him automatically pressing a hand to his swollen middle. He realised that Optimus was staring and almost withdrew but indignation and pride stopped him. Instead he swept his hand down his front, bold and possessive.

Optimus struggled to raise his optics. “I still wish you had told me.”

Megatron cocked an orbital ridge, snorting. “Why? What would it have changed?” The cramp reached its crescendo and held, and he held his breath through the pain. The small plates on the undersides of his pedes tightened and twitched against the decking. 

It seemed to take a long time to abate, and as the pain eased he finally exvented and shook his helm. Standing had been a bad idea, Megatron conceded. It definitely hurt more standing. He leant back against the side of the berth, one hand braced on it. He was not willing to clamber awkwardly back on with Optimus in the room. 

“It’s not a bargaining chip. It’s got nothing to do with the war.”

A spasm of the same crippling strength as the cramps shot up his backstrut. Megatron hissed with a shudder, automatically pressing a hand to his wounded side to keep the plates from flexing apart and breaking the seal. 

Optimus was on his feet, hands hovering as he resisted the need to touch and help. “Megatron? Should I get Ratchet?”

“No,” the carrier bit out as he curled down gracelessly into the raised backrest of the berth. “We are not finished here.” Much as he willed it, Megatron conceded that he perhaps wasn’t up to continuing this conversation right now. He brought his pedes back up onto the berth with a clenched jaw.

Optimus remained standing, broadcasting his concern openly as he regarded the big mech curled on his side. Now was not the time for this. He glanced towards the door, expecting to see Ratchet already coming inside - torn between fetching the older mech and not leaving Megatron alone. 

“We are seeking out the Nemesis to return you,” he uttered, offering what would perhaps be the best news to Megatron even if it felt like cutting a strip to say it. Megatron would leave, heavy and wounded, and just the thought of it had the code screaming. Optimus cycled a breath, holding his hands down to his sides. “And there are, things, we need to discuss, but later.”

Megatron’s optic brightened and focussed on the Autobot. The grimace twisting his features turned into a full snarl. “Tigan?”

Optimus nodded fractionally, spark churning at everything contained in that single name. “Yes.”

The carrier did not acknowledge his answer, optics shuttering and ventilations coming in thick rasps. 

Having been monitoring from outside, Ratchet appeared in the doorway and immediately strode to the berth. Optimus stepped to one side to let the medic in, and started when Megatron’s hand landed on his forearm and gripped hard.

Ratchet put a hand on Megatron’s shoulder, instantly taking scans. “Megatron?”

The carrier used the leverage and one hand braced against the edge of the berth to sit up again, helm lowered and optics bright with pain. No position helped – the agony was building, not abating. 

Ratchet ducked to see his face, squeezing his fingers to get the mech’s attention. “Where’s the pain?”

The big mech seemed to cringe in on himself. He kept hold of Optimus’s arm, his other hand splaying against the seeping patch on his side. 

“Talk to me, Megatron,” Ratchet barked, his voice curt with urgency.

Megatron curled further into himself, shaking his head, and Ratchet well understood the distinction between _would_ not and _could_ not. He was silent, open mouthed and panting, then a groan of pained dragged deep from the bottom of his tank turned into a shout. Metal squealed as he grabbed the edge of the berth and clenched with crushing power, his other arm jerking Optimus forward and almost crashing them together. 

Optimus let his arm be held close, gripping the carrier’s shoulder with his remaining hand. The frantic energy lashing out of Megatron’s field, and the heat of his frame, stirred a panic in his chassis. “Ratchet!”

Drawing the limbs in was a classic miner’s response to distress – a deeply coded instinct to curl into a ball when the tunnel threatened to cave in. Ratchet didn’t try to stop it, instead coming around to Optimus’s side and sliding a hand through the gap between them to palm the carrier’s middle. 

The heat made him grimace, and the sudden hardening and tightness beneath his hand had him cursing. 

“Get in here, Scope!” he yelled over Megatron’s sharp cry.

Assistant called, and hopefully running, Ratchet dropped his voice back to the assured cadence programmed into all medics. “Megatron, you have to let me see.”

The carrier rocked, seemingly trying to comply and come out of his hunched position. He grunted when his backstrut spasmed and wouldn’t straighten, leaving him to press his helm against Optimus’s chassis.

“You’re alright, that’s fine.” Ratchet was immediately in action, wrapping an arm around the mech’s middle. The gestation chamber was in spasm and if they didn’t keep the sparkling out of the way, it was likely to tear its anchorage. “I know it hurts, but get your pedes on the deck – yes, like that- and it’ll help.” 

Optimus, thankfully, figured out what he was doing and helped to manoeuvre him so that he was stood sideways to the berth, one arm braced on the padding and the other caught up in the Prime’s grip. 

“There, just lean on the berth, we’ve got you. Better?”

Megatron nodded fractionally, his helm ducked low between his pauldrons, his crown to Optimus’s middle. The armour across his chassis flexed and flared in a failing attempt to dispel heat, the curve of the sparkling hanging in space.

Ratchet placed a hand in the small of the carrier’s back and thumbed a pressure point to relieve some of the ache. The touch also gave him time to consult his sensors whilst Megatron settled. “Your manufacturing plant is dorsally placed. Lying flat is about the worst thing you can do right now.”

“What’s happening?” Megatron asked, his voice rough with static though the pain had eased enough to think again. He was vaguely aware of Optimus holding him up, of gripping the mech, but his thoughts were too scattered to push him away.

Satisfied that he wasn’t going to get his arm crushed by his patient, Ratchet kept applying pressure to his backstrut whilst his other hand felt about the sparling. He pressed firmly, feeling shape and recoil, mapping out the scene inside. “You’ve gone into emergence, but it’s early. We can stop it.”

Megatron choked. “It’s too soon. It-”

“Save your energy,” Ratchet said, his optics distant as his fingers probed lower, pushing hard into the pliant mesh to map out the mass beneath. When he got into the groove of Megatron’s pelvic cradle, the carrier grunted but remained compliant. 

“The helm isn’t engaged, but the chamber’s started to drop down.” He actually felt the next contraction start to build, a terrible tightening of parts and mesh that just weren’t ready to move like this yet. And were protesting as such through agony. “Deep vents, Megatron, ride it out. Rock or sway if it helps, but for _Primus’s sake _don’t push.”__

__The big mech shuttered his optics and abandoned holding onto the berth. He latched onto the Prime’s hip faring with a moan. “It’s miscarrying…”_ _

__“Not while I’m here.”_ _

__Ratchet didn’t loop up when the door slid open. “Thirty litres coolant lined in now, and wrap him in as many ‘pads as you can.”_ _

__A pause as he recalled the sunken bath in the back of the infirmary where he grew protomesh transfusions. The current stock was immature but it would survive being removed for a day. “And empty the bath and set it to chill.”_ _

__Scope got to work fetching the supplies, starting with a direct-line coolant feed that would drain heat-saturated coolant and replace it with artificially chilled fluid, bypassing Megatron’s own cooling pump. Once that was going, she would get the emergency trolley._ _

__“Ratchet?” Optimus’s voice was hesitant. The hand not holding Megatron’s arm was now curled over the back of the mech’s helm._ _

__Ratchet shuttered his optics with a grimace, wondering if the chance of getting the sire to leave now was even measurable. Likely Optimus would need to be bodily dragged away._ _

___This_ mess had to be prioritised, first._ _

__“System stress from all the trauma Megatron’s been through has triggered premature labour,” he muttered, following the carrier’s body as he hunched forward into another contraction. Scope had almost finished splicing the two coolant lines into the mech’s hip and shoulder, linking him to a large frosted cylinder on top of the trolley. “I need to cool his systems and trick them into slowing down whilst I reboot the protocols.”_ _

__And because Ratchet didn’t have enough hands, and Optimus was _right there_ :_ _

__“Megatron, would you allow Optimus to help?” He leaned around until he could see a splinter of pain-bright optic. “I need to do an internal exam and since we can’t lie you down, someone needs to hold you up. Will you allow Optimus to help?”_ _

__Ratchet bit his glossa and was about to tell the Prime to get out when Megatron finally nodded; once, but enough to be clear consent._ _

__“Okay. Tell me if you need me to stop. Lean on the edge of the berth –we’ve got you- that’s right.” Wasting no time, Ratchet took his hands off the mech’s frame and turned to his commander. “Optimus, stand behind and hold his hips. Move with him, but he _has_ to stay steady. And _talk_ to him, Unmaker take you. Distract him.”_ _

__It was a dubious blessing that Optimus showed no hesitation in supporting the labouring mech, barely breaking contact to move down his body and stand thigh to thigh. Ratchet knew perfectly well that Orion and Megatronus had been intimate in its most vigorous meaning, and whilst it was going to help now, the emotional mess already being dredged up was going to be merry slag to deal with later._ _

__Optimus gripped the solid angles of Megatron’s hips, murmuring low words of strength and support that the carrier was only half hearing. Megatron pressed into the strong hands and the meagre comfort and relief offered, ventilations coming in hot, regular blasts at the Prime’s encouragement._ _

___Coding_ , Ratchet thought to himself. When it went this old and deep, there could be no escaping it._ _

__Scope reappeared from installing the drip just as Ratchet was getting down on his knees next to the berth. The pale blue medic had brought more equipment on the trolley than the cooling pads stacked on top. At a glance, Ratchet saw everything for a full dilation and extraction; pain suppressants; forceps and clamps; warming blankets and a sparkling incubator with attached life support. Everything from miscarriage to a live birth, in addition to tools to stall the emergence completely._ _

__“Alright now: Scope and Optimus are going to work together to bring your temperature down and help stop the contractions.” He spoke from the carrier’s hip, trusting Scope to get on with instructing Optimus._ _

__Intuiting from Ratchet’s position on the floor, the other medic took a tube of lubricant from the trolley and tossed it into the senior medic’s hand._ _

__“I’m going to see how your plug’s holding up,” Ratchet said, squeezing a liberal amount of the thick gel onto his fingers. “If the lattice at the bottom of your tank is starting to thin, I can put an artificial membrane over it. Open your panel.”_ _

__Megatron did so immediately, which spoke volumes once again of how fervently he prioritised the sparkling, and of how far he trusted the Autobot medic._ _

__Ratchet slid two fingers into his valve with troubling ease. The passage was dilating, callipers spreading but also pulling against the gestation chamber - which hadn’t descended into position with the weight of the sparkling. The contractions hurt so much because the tank was struggling to give._ _

__The base was out of reach of his fingers where the big mech’s valve hadn’t shortened for emergence. Ratchet had to force his whole hand inside in slow, brutal increments to feel the lattice. Megatron shook with grunted, hoarse sounds above him, soothed down by Optimus’s baritone rumble._ _

__The lattice was smooth, the pleats almost completely gone. Ratchet braced the back of his fingers against the soft metal to ease the pressure and stop it splitting._ _

__“Scope, bonding gel.”_ _

__He put the end of the plunger in his teeth as soon as it was handed to him, needing his assistant wrapping cooling pads and not holding the gel. Working as fast as he could, Ratchet fed the stiff tube alongside his wrist into the dark valve._ _

__“Core temperature’s fallen three degrees,” Scope said quietly._ _

__When he’d caught the end of the tube in his inserted hand, Ratchet took the plunger of gel out of his mouth. “I can feel it. Megatron, I’m going to patch over the plug now and it’s going to burn a bit. Optimus is going to hold you very tight and you _must_ keep as still as you can. We don’t want this gel going anywhere else.”_ _

__He waited for Optimus to murmur ‘ready’ before starting, depressing the plunger whilst his fingers blindly drew concentric circles on the breaching point of Megatron’s gestation tank. Ratchet held fast when Megatron shuddered, trusting Optimus to keep him from getting kicked whilst he applied the burning gel. There wasn’t time to be slow and cautious._ _

__A cold pack fell onto Ratchet’s shoulder, but his hands were steadier than the sudden shock. Within seconds he was done and pulling the tube back out, though he kept his hand in place whilst the gel set. He flexed his fingers to keep the walls of the carrier’s valve from touching the patch as it set, graphically aware from his text books what sort of damage _that_ simple mistake could cause._ _

__A judder of metal was all the warning Ratchet got before Megatron’s knee’s buckled under him, and it was only Optimus’s hands and the edge of the berth that kept him upright. The Prime shouted his name, stiff with fear._ _

__“It’s the coolant,” Ratchet snapped, slowly beginning to remove his hand from the mech’s valve. He only had a finite supply of patience, and definitely not enough to waste on Primes who ought to not be here in the first place. “It’s slowing his systems. Nausea, dizziness and fatigue are side-effects, but he’s fine.”_ _

__“The berth?”_ _

__Ratchet glanced up to check where Scope’s drip lines were placed and then stood up, one hand cradling the labouring mech’s chassis. “No, he needs to go in the bath – right after I’ve reeled back the protocols.”_ _

__Megatron’s hands twitched and grabbed violently at the berth as if his world were being upended. Optimus kept a hold of one hip plate and ran his other hand in slow strokes down the mech’s backstrut. He was touching more cooling pads than mesh, but the pressure of the repetitive motion seemed to work as an anchor. They were stood flush, immersed in one another’s fields. “Easy, Megatron, be easy. Ratchet’s fixing it.”_ _

__The medic was already hooked in with a datacable, blind to the room as he scouted about the digital landscape of the carrier’s systems. Processor threads had become snarled up and stuck in loops subordinate to carrier protocols and basic coding, now thrown further into disarray by the efforts to abort the labour. It would take a few minutes to set things back to default and stop the signals going to the chamber to dilate and expel._ _

__He trusted Scope to deal with Megatron and Optimus until then._ _

__

__*****_ _


	40. Chill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has left kudos and comments, and I'm sorry if I haven't replied to you yet. Honestly things have been really hard lately, and just the fact that there are folk still enjoying this is what's kept my motivation going. The next few chapters are well planned and I've got some more energy at the moment, so hopefully it won't be such a long wait for the next chapter. Thank you for reading along and your ongoing patience and support! <3

When they’d finally stabilised the Decepticon Commander after he’d been brought guttered into the medbay, Ratchet had muttered that a promotion was in Scope’s immediate future. Now, faced with managing both faction leaders whilst the Chief Medical Officer had vanished into his processor threads, Scope wondered if a demotion would be better. Certainly the battlefield had been more _straightforward._

The Prime continued to stroke down Commander Megatron’s backstrut as he shivered and jerked, murmuring assurances in a low, intimate timbre. Scope tried not to listen as she repositioned cooling packs and replaced the ones that had warmed beyond use. It felt like intruding on something she _really_ had no business knowing about.

Megatron’s arms shook as he tried to straighten them, optics shuttered and lips drawn back in a grimace. He tipped his helm back, throat cables straining.

Optimus’s hand stilled between his shoulders. “Megatron?”

“It’s his backstrut,” Scope intoned, setting the packs aside with a frown. The sparkling was hanging heavy in space throughout the contractions, and had been for some time. Her own lumbar struts ached in sympathy. They couldn’t lie him down, though. “He needs to stand up. The plug Ratchet fitted will have hardened by now.”

A nod of understanding, but Optimus remained at Megatron’s hip and looked openly uncertain. 

Scope made a quick assessment of his hands on the carrier’s frame, how unsteady Megatron’s legs were, and Ratchet’s crouched position on the floor. Awkwardly manoeuvring her bulky frame and long treds, she ended up stood straddling Ratchet’s arm to get her arms fixed around Megatron’s chassis.

“Come round to his front and take his arms,” she instructed, nodding her head towards Megatron’s clawed grip on the top of the berth. “I’ll support him whilst you bring his arms up slowly.”

Optimus seemed grateful for the guidance albeit reluctant to release his hold on the carrier. When a rasped exvent morphed into another groan, he eased his hands back and sidestepped to Megatron’s shoulder. 

“Steady, I have you,” he murmured as he slid his hands beneath Megatron’s arms, bracing their weight against his gauntlets. “Hold on to me, Megatron. I won’t let you fall.”

Desperate or code-obedient, Scope couldn’t tell, but Megatron instantly abandoned holding the berth and latched on to Optimus’s upper arms. He swayed with the movement but Scope’s solid support kept him up.

Optimus brought him up slowly with Scope’s help, shuffling his pedes closer as Megatron inched from being completely bent at the waist through to a hunched slump against his chassis. Scope helped to guide the carrier’s hands up to comfortable holding points on Optimus’s shoulder armour, gingerly lifting her leg away from Ratchet and over the connecting data cables. Whilst Optimus fidgeted his grip on Megatron’s chassis, she rolled her knuckles into the small of the mech’s back to ease apart bunched cables and tensed hydraulics. 

“Megatron?” Optimus asked, voice pitched low and quiet now that his audio was so close. He said it again with more urgency when there was no response.

“He can’t really hear us, Sir,” Scope said from the other side of Megatron’s bulk, almost hidden by his mass. “Ratchet’s keeping him from complete system shock, but it’s not far off.”

By the time she’d worked out the worst of the tension-taut components, the coolant had almost emptied. Scope left Optimus to hold Megatron up whilst she switched a fresh canister in, checking the lines once again as she did so. By chance she looked at the points where the two large mechs were pressed together.

“Uh, there’s a small problem, Sir,” she said, giving Optimus an uneasy look. “Well, not a _problem_ , really, but… You’re not going to be able to go anywhere for a while.”

Optimus frowned a little, in part because he had yet to show any sign of _wanting_ to leave. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean. Please be more specific, Scope.”

The assistant medic stiffened a little at hearing her designation in the Prime’s voice for the first time, the cleared her vents and gestured at where both leaders’ chassis were touched. From what she could see, some parts of the contrasting armour was interlocked in folds and spirals. “Megatron’s initiated some adhoc transformations – unconsciously, and dictated by the carrier coding. It looks like some of your armour has shifted as well, Sir. Some of your plates are now completely interlocked.”

“Ah.” His mouth opened and closed again, chin touching Megatron’s helm where it was pressed into his neck. “I thought something felt… different. His hands are gripping extremely tightly, as well, but I thought it was from the pain.”

Scope leaned sideways and looked up, grimacing a little. Megatron’s fingers had locked around two pieces of shoulder armour with such force that the edges were pleated. The carrier’s joints, much like the adjusted armour of his chassis, were locked. He was going to ache like pitslag when he finally let go…

“If it becomes necessary, we can sever the hydraulics in his wrists and-”

She snapped her mouth shut at the warning rumble Prime’s engine gave, and the accompanying flash in his optics. 

Scope inclined her helm with a step backwards, fingers splayed and careful not to take her optics off the mech. There was a reason sires were kept away from carriers during training. Just the sight of a gravid mecha staggering threw their officer into disarray. It was a miracle when everyone was housed together that anyone got any work done.

One did not effectively threaten slashing a carrier’s wrists when a mech with sire coding was present, significantly armed and already on high alert. 

And Ratchet had been so sure that the Prime wasn’t under the influence…

“The bath’s big enough for two if Ratchet still wants him in there,” she said, going back to making herself busy holding cooling packs in place. 

Optimus shuttered his optics, appearing pained. “I apologise, Scope. That was…”

She gave him a sympathetic look over Megatron’s arm, and didn’t leave him struggling to find the words. “It’s fine, Sir. I understand. I… Permission to speak frankly?”

A twitch of a relieved smile. “Please.”

“I haven’t experienced sire coding myself, but I’ve seen plenty of sires thrown like dice around carriers.” It was coincidence that she kept her helm bowed, optics on her work. “There’s only so much you can do to resist the coding in situations like this. Sometimes it’s just impossible, try as we might.”

“You believe I am under the influence of sire coding towards Megatron’s sparkling.”

He uttered it as a statement, flat and heavy as a slab. Scope’s treds twitched behind her shoulders. “Medical necessity, Sir,” she replied, settling on a short and simple answer. After a moment she risked looking up.

It did not seem to do much for him, his stare fixed and bright. But then, she reasoned, perhaps it was the words themselves and not that the knowledge was shared that was so troubling. 

****

It had taken Ratchet longer than he’d have liked to untangle the mess the gestation chamber had made of Megatron’s systems, tracking down cascade failures and overrides that ran from dozens of periphery systems. It had been a juggling act to keep the emergence triggers at bay whilst rebooting and reconfiguring the messes that his interference was inevitably causing. He’d not expected aborted emergence protocols to scramble the sump temperature gauge thread, but apparently they could.

The worst of it was that every time he began to withdraw his managing influence, Megatron’s system’s geared back up for emergence. He tracked that issue down to the dizzying mess of carrier coding he’d never even seen before, let alone tangled himself up in. It was a logistical nightmare, and felt like patch-welding over cracks. 

Something changed quite suddenly as he was soothing more digital knots, and Ratchet was sure that things weren’t looking better because of something he’d done. He backtracked the logs and found some micro-transformation sequences had taken place – none of which were near the sparkling. Central chassis. Odd, but not harmful. 

It was several more minutes before Ratchet deemed it safe to extract himself. He was going to have a monster of a processor ache later from all of this. There was already an edge of nausea as his awareness swam back and the room came into focus again.

“Sir?”

“He’s stabilised,” Ratchet said, waving Scope off. He picked up the data packet she pinged him and caught up on her scans with a quick skim. The rest he left to his own senses.

Megatron’s position was now pressed up against Optimus, and the buffet of energy fields had turned hot and prickling. Scope was still fixing cooling packs and had changed the drip, at least. 

Ratchet got to his feet with a huff, scowling at just how close the two mechs were. Impossibly close. He cast a critical optic along the intersection of Autobot and Decepticon plates, then looked up to Optimus with a wry twist to his mouth.

“Fortunately the bath’s big enough for two.”

 

****

It had taken no little manhandling to get through four doorways and one right-angle corridor to the bath. The protomatter that had been maturing was congealing in cuboid tanks to one side, and the sunken bath itself was almost finished filling from the sub-deck reservoir. The glossy grey liquid wasn’t the ideal composition, but it was cool and nanite-rich – better than laying the carrier up on a berth.

Optimus had carried Megatron against his chassis whilst Ratchet and Scope held his knees up against his hips. It was a long step down into the bath, and it had been a slow and stiff operation to get them in without tearing their chassis plates apart. The viscous fluid had sloshed over the sides and across the floor when Optimus was finally sat, Megatron straddling his lap and slumped unconscious against his shoulder.

Scope and Ratchet were led on their fronts on either side, groping hands plugging in diagnostic cables to feed back to the consoles. Optimus held still as their fingers grazed over his plating, the contact inevitable with his body so closely enmeshed with Megatron’s. 

The bath was uncomfortably cold but Megatron’s frame was steadfastly warm, and Optimus was helpless to keep both arms wrapped around him. 

“Do you want a heating blanket across your shoulders?” Ratchet asked as he scuffed back up to his elbows. The pristine white plates of his arms were dripping in thin ropes.

Optimus shook his head, suppressing the tremble across the dry plates at the base of his stacks. They would build friction heat on their own, if necessary, and he didn’t want to be encumbered further should Megatron stir. 

“I’m fine, Ratchet. It is very little to endure until Megatron releases me.” 

Ratchet huffed, the effect of which was somewhat diminished by the wet gurgle of fluid his vents were pressed against, then got to his knees. “That isn’t likely to be until he comes out of stasis,” he said as he finally got to his pedes and wiped off his thighs. “Scope.”

The bulky femme finished socketing the monitoring cable into the wall console then turned smartly on her heel. It was an ingrained movement – Ratchet suspected she could pivot on a footstool if needed.

“Sir?”

Ratchet produced a cleanser-packed sponge from his subspace and began wiping down his front. The fluid in the bath didn’t mix well with the console controls – a combination of sticky and conductive. 

“I’ll take first watch. The steady cold’ll help, but those protocols are still fresh and I want to make sure they don’t resurface. Go get a full defrag cycle and some fuel, and come back in six hours. I’ll comm. if I need you.”

To her credit, Scope didn’t hesitate to nod and make straight for the door. Another ingrained reaction from military training, and one that Ratchet rather liked. No doubt she’d put up a good case if enough was there to disagree with him, but Scope didn’t waste energy on disputes she was doomed to lose.

****

Shockwave had felt some sense of resistance at the prospect of leaving his dedicated facility unattended whilst an unprecedented number of projects were running simultaneously, even if only for a short period. He had found himself flush with funds and resources, instructed to manufacture weaponry that had been stalled in production, and all with very little explanation.

It was an unexpected turn of events given Cybertron’s situation and the current status of the war effort. For the last year, the priorities were territory (on the planet and in space) and resources (energon, primarily, but also recruitment). High Command’s latest orders, by contrast, were entirely escalating – territory scorched and resources burned through for the sake of instilling fear, panic and disorder. 

Death and destruction were the current requirement, and Shockwave was just as sufficiently equipped to meet that demand.

The nucleonic missile had already existed in scattered parts when he’d received the delivery order. It had taken the drones and his own hand little time to assemble. The missile had to be towed to the Valen system from Cybertron as it was too volatile to take into a vortex, and Shockwave had left it to be escorted. 

Now that the missile was in position, Shockwave travelled via spacebridge to the Nemesis to observe. The drones would manage the work in his absence and, once past the threshold, his usual unease about leaving the laboratory vanished. He was intrigued by the destruction that the weapon would inflict upon an inhabited system, and the reaction in the Tellurium and Iridium rings that had been so bitterly fought over by the factions.

Shockwave had been delivered straight to the laboratory with only a cursory communication from Starscream. After checking that everything was in order and setting the missile to run its final checks, he ascended the Nemesis to the bridge. It was a lengthy journey – the lab was in the belly of the ship, designed to be isolated and jettisoned in an emergency. 

On the few occasions he had visited the flagship, or indeed any location occupied by Megatron, it had been customary to pay due respect to the Decepticon Commander. Shockwave operated on the periphery of the army and was privileged with great autonomy – he would not wish to be thought of as ungrateful or beyond the authority of Megatron’s rule.

Stepping on to the expansive bridge, Shockwave cast his optic about for his Lord. He took in the throne and its central position, Soundwave’s unmoving form in one corner, and Starscream’s narrowed optics and stiff wings. 

“Welcome aboard, Shockwave,” he murmured, sliding his hands behind his back and beginning to approach. 

Starscream’s pedes struck the decking heel-toe, creating a sharp and distinctive audio pattern. Shockwave recorded a sample and set the file aside in his processor for later review.

“I had anticipated our Liege’s presence," Shockwave replied, continuing his advance into the space to meet Starscream midway between the doors and the throne. It afforded him a better view of Soundwave’s… _configuration._

The Seeker tilted his helm but did not break optic contact, emanating confident assurance. "Lord Megatron is attending to important business on another ship. There will be no delay in the deployment of the missile in his absence."

"Understood.” It was unexpected, but Shockwave did not know of the full scope of the war effort and the Commander’s orders. Exercising a chance opportunity, he probed: “I query what is more important than the radical escalation of the war."

Starscream arched one optical ridge, sneering. "Classified."

Shockwave bowed his helm, unsurprised and unperturbed. “Final preparations are underway. The missile will be ready when Valen 4 has orbited into optimal position.”

“Excellent.” 

Some silent command to the Eradicons in the recessed work area summoned an image of the Valen system to the main viewing screen. Shockwave studied them above the Second in Command’s silhouette. 

Valen 4’s rings were partway past the star, the turquoise bulk of the planet just coming into view. The planet’s Autobot-occupied moon was on the far side, blind to the Nemesis which was positioned out of the predicted blast wave. In the bottom right corner, scrolling figures indicated that the satellites in the system were reporting incorrect data. 

Soundwave was operational, it seemed, and working at peak efficiency. Shockwave’s finials tilted back with his intrigue, his massive optic tracking back to the silent mech.

Starscream noticed him staring, and his wings twitched in a display of disgust and unease. His arms slid to fold across his chassis, a tactically cocked hip disguising the shielding motion as disinterest. “Quite a mess, isn’t it? Effective for the moment, however.”

The statement seemed invitation to approach. Shockwave crossed the bridge into the shadowed area and came to kneel at Soundwave’s side, leaning in close to the mech. “It is intriguing,” he replied as he began to run a scan. "This degree of hardware integration to facilitate a neural link is fascinating.” 

Soundwave’s frame was breached and split by data conduits, as if he had emerged newly forged and tethered with umbilicus from the console. The joins between mech and machinery were blurred and wet, seeping internal fluid that seemed to be acting as a conductor. 

Shockwave rubbed his thumb across his fingertips, resisting the desire to touch and explore. “I wish to examine the configuration and establish the ratio of benefit to damage," he announced, flirting his grip over a subspaced scanning probe.

Pedes ringing loudly, Starscream was quick to snap back: "Commander Soundwave is not a specimen to be scrutinised, and his current... _configuration_ , is temporary only."

Regrettable, but Shockwave consoled himself with the fact that this discovery was not the point of his visit. Indeed, it paled in significance in comparison to the fallout from the missile. 

"Very well. I will explore this degree of linkage with my own specimens." He rose smoothly back up to his full height, unsurprised to find that Starscream was now standing very close. 

"You have any left?" Starscream drawled, malicious rather than surprised.

Shockwave inclined his helm to the Seeker. "Few. My work would benefit from a delivery."

"I'm afraid we're all out if prisoners right now."

There was a grim sort of satisfaction in the mech’s expression – just the edge of his lipplates on the left curved upwards. Shockwave inferred that this was a _pleasing_ development for him. He puzzled at that, and in reflecting about the latest reports he’d viewed. "I heard about the executions. It was... Unexpected. Illogical."

Bared dente, wide stance and Starscream’s hands dropped to dis sides. "You dare question Lord Megatron's orders?"

Shockwave cycled his optical lens, taking an image capture for later review. For now he simply declared: "No.”

Starscream’s wings flexed until the tips almost met beyond his shoulders, his expression stiff and dark. He nodded his head backwards to indicate the entry. “Get to the lab - we'll be starting soon.”

Dipping his helm in deference to rank, Shockwave didn’t hesitate to follow the order. Whilst there was much to analyse here on the Nemesis, his focus currently needed to be dominated by the missile and the star it was destined for.


	41. Over

Stasis lock gradually gave way to a deep recharge cycle. Megatron dreamed.

****

Sound hammered and howled down through the ceiling into the small prep room. The weight of the Arena at full thrumming capacity was above him, stamping and shouting, braying for energon. Flakes of metal and grime dripped and floated as they were dislodged from the erratic seams. Like the fighters, the structure was largely held together by stubbornness of substance.

Megatron palmed the thick swell of his belly and for once felt fear where before there had been exhilaration or, later, the cold determination of a revolutionary. The armour across his midrift was stretched thin and gaping, exposing his mesh and the sparkling scant inches inside. 

It was crowded. Hands pawed at his neck and helm, urging him forward. They were faceless – dark figments – and their voices were disjointed and loud.

“Looking soft, Megatronus.”

“Gonna see you split sideways today.”

“Sparkling parts go for a scrap all around here.”

“Weak and brittle like its carrier.”

“Might get to keep what’s left.”

The prep room lead seamlessly into the long ascending walkway to the Arena floor. Its walls were pitted and gouged where slaves and mechanimals used to be dragged through them. Before ‘gladiator’ became a profession and they took the walk willingly.

Moving away from the groping hands with a growl, Megatron rounded the corner and found three mecha blocking his path. Soundwave, Starscream and Breakdown stood in a line across the corridor, backlit by the doorway into the fighting pit. It was unnaturally bright outside, blinding him to whatever waited. Dust rained down on the silhouetted figures from the ceiling, casting them in a halo of Kaon filth. The stands were vibrating, the Arena one voice on all sides. Pressing in. Deafening.

Soundwave stepped forward with a chain mace in his outstretched hands. The cord was looped tight enough to hang on Megatron’s hip spur, and the smooth ball fit in the palm of his hand. He felt with his thumb the crisscrossing slits where the blades sprung out where released.

Soundwave remained in place, close enough to touch. 

Breakdown came forward with a massive diamond-shaped shield, turning it in readiness for Megatron’s hand. The frontliner-turned-medic held on to his gauntlet for a moment, fingers a solid pressure on the armour there.

Starscream stepped forward empty handed, though his features were alight with a predatory sort of gleam. When he stood between Soundwave and Breakdown once again, he reached a hand up over his wing and grasped a sword hilt. He drew a massive blade, too wide and heavy for his frame, and offered it to Megatron’s hand. 

The sword felt right when he took it – an extension of himself.

Soundwave bowed his helm, a subtle motion that still drew Megatron’s attention. With slow ceremony, he raised his hand lay his narrow fingertips across the carrier’s middle.

“You are not diminished,” he intoned, visor raising to meet Megatron’s stare before he withdrew his hand. “Be ruthless. We are here.”

Starscream and Breakdown touched their fists to their chassis, then stepped to the sides of the corridor. Soundwave echoed the salute, then twisted back alongside Breakdown.

Thus armed, Megatron bowed his helm and stepped through the space they made for him. One stride towards the arena, a faster second, and then he was pitching into a loping run: a charge for the entrance. The ball of the flail swung at his thigh; the shield guarded his middle, close and solid; and the sword was raised and ready to stroke.

He burst through into noise and heat and the smell of death dried and matted into the gutters. 

On the other side of the circle, Optimus began to charge.

Megatron had already built up speed, coming at the Prime with a bellow that rose into a roar. It was two swords to one, but Optimus lost the one in his left hand from the shocking impact of the gladiator’s mass and momentum. Megatron battered into the mech’s chassis with the shield and rolled away before he could be grabbed. Pivoting on one foot, he landed with pedes spread and shoulders low. It kept the shield across his middle. The mace knocked against his thigh.

Optimus regained his footing and rolled his right shoulder, forcing a central piece of armour back into place. His optics were fixed on Megatron, strangely bright. “You know how this will end.”

Tightening his grip on the sword, Megatron sneered at the other mech. “Yes: just as I will it.”

 

****

They’d been in relative peace for the last four hours. Ratchet had issued the command staff a warning that they were both occupied with Megatron and not to be disturbed, effectively silencing Optimus’s comm., and the carrier’s systems had settled well in the bath. It had been safe to let his systems idle, strained as they were from a near-complete lack of defrag these last few weeks, and he’d resigned himself to sitting down to a light defrag. There weren’t currently any patients in the Medbay who needed more than his assistants were capable of providing, and he wanted to be in the room as much for Optimus as to monitor and be near Megatron should anything develop. 

Optimus jerked from his own shallow state of recharge when Megatron moved against him. It was a subtle shift, knees tightening about his thighs and chassis flexing against his. The carrier had been completely motionless since they’d gotten into the pool some four hours ago, lying atop him as a warm weight. With their frames so thoroughly intertwined, he’d been able to feel the contractions taper away.

“Ratchet?” he called, his voice rough and low.

The medic invented sharply from where he’d been sat in the corner of the room. It was a standby mode unique to medics, and his sensory suite and processor were back fully online within a nanoklik of shifting.

“What is it?” Ratchet asked, pushing up from the chair and coming to kneel beside Optimus’s shoulder. He lay a hand across Megatron’s dry backstruts, his touch within Optimus’s view.

Optimus held a ventilation as Megatron shifted again, his helm turning to press his face into the side of the Autobot’s neck struts. There was a very quiet sound of micro-transformations happening. “I believe he is separating from me.”

Ratchet sighed and nodded, relief evident in his field. “Good, that’s good. His systems were anchoring to yours in a very literal sense as they recovered from the shock of an early and interrupted birth. That he’s releasing you and starting to move again puts him in the clear.”

A larger movement had Megatron rocking forward this time, engine grumbling, backstrut curling a little more. Optimus held still, optics wide and fingers splayed out and away from the carrier’s frame. “Can you estimate how much longer he will hold on for?”

The medic arched a brow in query. Optimus cleared his vocaliser, dente gritted, and answered looking down the back of Megatron’s helm. “His array is still exposed…” 

And the coding was pushing hard, Ratchet surmised. Optimus’s murmur held an embarrassed sort of awkwardness that was all Orion Pax, but the concern was very real. With their bodies fixed in this position, intimate contact was almost inevitable, and with circumstances and carrier/sire coding muddying issues of consent…

“You’re getting out,” Ratchet said, gripping Optimus’s shoulder as his optics zoomed in on their interlocked chassis plates.

****

The crowd was gone from the fighters’ awareness, absent as their weapons to the dust and heat and thick howl of their engines. Optimus had lost his blades first, and Megatron had found the blade of his sword snapped during a pin that had briefly turned his vision black.

The fight had spiralled downhill from there. Optimus was talking, grunting affirmations that may as well have been goading taunts, but Megatron wasn’t listening. The sparkling was a solid mass in his gut, throwing his centre of balance, stifling his evasive manoeuvres and sucking the force from every attack that took him towards danger. Towards Optimus.

His opponent seemed intent not to hurt him outright – merely to disarm and/or pin him. Optimus’s longer legs had been an obstacle during the first few grapples on the floor simply because Megatron wasn’t used to fighting him in this way. 

He still had his shield, though, and the mace on his hip. The weapon felt paltry now, particularly as Optimus wouldn’t give him the distance to use it. 

The fight was close and dirty. Optimus moved like he was hungry for it, and though his frame was fatigued and his moves stilted, Megatron did not feel anxious. He did not feel alone.

****

Their chassis were no longer meshed together, but Megatron’s grip had become even more secure. Ratchet had watched with half an optic as the big mech’s arms had tightened around Optimus’s neck whilst disconnecting the monitoring lines. He stuck his hand into the bath to get a sense of what their legs were doing, and was unsurprised to feel Megatron’s heel locked behind the Prime’s knee, their thighs flush and the metal hot.

Optimus continued to hold his hands away from Megatron, now clenched into fists, and had tipped his helm back. The carrier’s face was pressed into his neck, jaw tight and huffing warm air against the bared mesh.

“Can you raise up at all, Optimus?” Ratchet asked, shifting back onto his knees and wondering over the logistics. There was no way he could get into the bath as well to pull Megatron off, and trying to haul him sideways over the edge put too much strain on the gestation chamber. 

“I think so,” Optimus bit out, strained and fast. He braced his hands on the lip of the bath and shifted, only to freeze with a shock groan when Megatron rocked against him. 

Ratchet hissed a curse. Apparently just that small movement had inspired _further complications_.

The Prime’s optics flared a degree brighter, fingers flaring and clenching again as he gripped the bath purely to keep his hands away.

Megatron’s engine rumbled a thick purring note straight into the mech’s core, thighs tightening and hips rolling forward again. 

Optimus shuttered his optics and concentrated on beating back the protocol to release his spike. It felt like resisting fuel when starving – a betrayal of absolute need.

“Ratchet…”

The medic was already administering a sedative into his neck, optics narrow and mouth a tight line. It wasn’t enough to shut the Prime down, but Ratchet knew from the files Ironhide had procured that it could temporarily throttle the sire coding back. 

After giving the chemicals a few seconds to hamper Optimus’s processor threads, Ratchet began to force his hand between the two mechs’ chassis to get a decent grip on Megatron. Just a little physical distance would help Optimus, even if he couldn’t fully get the carrier off of him.

The pressure of grasping fingers against Megatron’s chassis triggered an abrupt response, and Ratchet barely ducked his helm out of the way of the carrier’s elbow. Megatron kept changing his grip on Optimus, jerking and lashing out blindly at the interfering medic. Optimus stiffened at the flurry of activity, but tried to grab and keep a hold on Megatron’s wrists.

****

Optimus’s mouth was covered in energon from where Megatron had smashed the flat of the shield into his face. It dripped down his front and spattered across the ground, stretching ropes between his dente when he spoke. 

Megatron had tuned the voice out. The sparkling was heavy but secure. His faithful officers were watching. He had learnt not to listen to Prime’s poisonous words. 

The Autobot pursued him around the Arena, hounding him to give ground. Megatron gave it without turning his back, taking the opportunities as they presented themselves to crash his fists, pedes and shield into the mech. He was not made uncertain by Optimus’s proximity, nor thrown by the heat of his frame and the snap of his field.

That he was master of his own destiny gave Megatron new reserves of confidence and power. 

He unhooked his fingers from the shield, disguising the weak grip by running his other hand across the swell of his middle. Watched Optimus stare, drawn to the potent shape of it. 

Whilst the mech’s optics were down, Megatron flicked about his grip on the shield and flung it disc-like into Optimus’s face. Optimus deflected the blow, giving the carrier the time to unhook the chain of the mace and sling the serrated ball forward.

It hooked around Optimus’s neck, circling once before he got an arm up to block it, and the chain wrapped around his gauntlet before the blades slammed into his shoulder plate. Twisting the chain about his hand as an anchor, Megatron yanked Optimus towards him and into his rising knee. A staggering blow to the midriff made Optimus stagger and clutch at the carrier’s shoulders. 

Megatron let himself fall back, already wrapping his thighs around Optimus’s waist. He pulled the chain harder, enough for the mech’s armour to begin to buckle, and tightened his thighs.

****

Megatron stopped thrashing when Optimus wrapped both arms around him, a stupid and impulsive move that felt right but he immediately regretted. Megatron groaned low and long with a slow arching of his back, grinding his valve against the mech’s exposed spike in an electrifying slide. Optimus jerked, stopping the rut of his hips mid-thrust with a cringe. It felt incredible – better than anything he’d felt before. Megatron’s valve was open and slick and right there. 

His ventilations came in sobbing gasps, his frame twitching with arousal and the pain of resistance. The sedative has muddied his thoughts, made his limbs heavy. When he looked up to Ratchet, his expression was pleading and his optics unfocused.

It was what Ratchet had been waiting for. The window was narrow, though, so he was quick getting down onto his front next to the bath. “You’re getting out now.”

Optimus shuttered his optics and nodded, feeling suddenly feverish and hollow with a want so deep it was sickening. Megatron was warm atop him, the bodies slotted together as well as they always had – even with the bulge of the sparkling between them. It would take almost nothing to press inside. There was energon seeping from his glossa from where he had been biting it.

“Look away.”

Optimus obeyed without thinking, turning his helm and shuttering his optics as his spike slid against the plush valve again. There was a click, a spark of heat against his neck, and a frame-wide spasm in the mech in his lap. 

The iron gip on his shoulder suddenly released.

Ratchet was already moving for his other shoulder when he onlined his optics to see what had happened. The underside of Megatron’s wrist had been pried open and the hydraulic cables inside shorted. His fingers had released because his arm now lacked all power to move.

“Ratchet…” he began uneasily, dizzy at the sight. Damage to the carrier. Rage swelled in a murky wave, not quite reaching the surface. Outrage. Protectiveness. Optimus felt sick at the mix of emotions, both suppressed and vivid.

Megatron shifted again and Optimus wasn’t concentrating and suddenly he was _inside_. He purged against his clenched dente and swallowed it back with a sob.

Another crackle of electricity and Megatron had let go completely. Ratchet grabbed him by the collar faring. One pull of a fully framed medic’s arm had him halfway out of the bath, and he scrambled to get the rest of the way out whilst Ratchet dropped in to steady Megatron against the side and keep him his damaged arms from submerging.

Optimus knew right away that he couldn’t stand. He ended up on one knee, body hunched low and trembling around his erect spike and aching spark. He felt nauseous, like he was falling, overpoweringly aroused and desperate beneath the iron will of his processor that he would not force himself onto Megatron’s unconscious form. The coding nullified the possibility of taking himself in hand – a waste of transfluid that the carrier needed for the sparkling. Their sparkling.

The sedatives were losing effect and the sire coding was rearing again with vengeance.

Optimus slammed his fist into the ground twice, fracturing two metacarpal struts on the third, and the pain was enough to refocus his processor from his interface unit. He bowed his helm, groaning through gritted dente as he forcibly cleared his processor of the images conjured. The memories. 

He would not force himself on an unconscious mech, no matter how hard the coding urged him to support the carrier of his sparkling in the most basic way. That brief penetration had been electric and horrifying in equal measure – the perfect balance of ecstasy and despair.

****

Megatron bared his dente in a grin as he pushed his hand up harder beneath Optimus’s jaw, using the leverage to strain his neck and pull the chain that much tighter. The mech’s limbs were twitching as the neural connections between his processor and limbs were crushed, and his optics were dimming from loss of fuel.

They were lying in a puddle of energon, primarily Optimus’s. Megatron’s legs were crossed behind his opponent’s back to keep him from getting any kind of leverage, stoically ignoring how the position forced the sparkling up into his tank.

The mech couldn’t speak, couldn’t taunt or tease, and when he had the words had been soundless to him. 

“It’s over, Optimus,” he hissed, delighting in the words. 

****

Megatron was stable. With Optimus removed, his systems had cycled down in exhaustion. Even his auto-repair was stalled.

Deeming it safe to leave him for a minute to attend to his other patient in need, Ratchet came to kneel by Optimus. The mech was sprawled in an awkward hunch across the floor, shoulders juddering and helm bowed.

“I can force your interface drives offline,” Ratchet offered quietly. It would be uncomfortable physically, but perhaps a relief mentally and emotionally.

Optimus gave a jerky nod, his vocaliser hoarse. “Please.”

A pinch of pressure against his neck as his port was opened, and then Ratchet was weaving through his firewalls down to base programming. Minutes later, the hot weight that had filled his gut eased back to nothing, and his spike began to retract of its own accord. Optimus tucked himself away with one hand and slumped sideways onto his hip, one hand braced against the floor and the other covering his face.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped between his fingers. Now that the furious arousal was no longer dominating his thoughts, shame and horror were taking its place. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean-”

“It’s alright, Optimus.” Ratchet sat at his hip and placed a hand in the middle of the mech’s shoulders, just applying pressure. He knew that the mech’s base coding was running riot, and was sure now that the pair had shared sparks in the past. Recognition and a synchronicity between the sparks was the best explanation for how the mechs were unconsciously falling against one another. For the sheer potency of their feelings and reactions.

Such explanations would fall on deaf audios right now, Ratchet knew. Later he could talk Optimus back from his guilty brooding, but here everything was too visceral and raw to do anything but console.

“We’ll get you both through this. It’ll be alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't apologise enough for the delay in this coming out. I had a solid vision for this chapter but getting the words together was impossible at times, and it still feels rough to me now, but I can't see the woods for the trees any more. I've missed writing regularly - my life is unrecognisable to when I started this fic. It's harder to find the time and energy now. If you're still here: thanks for sticking with me! <3 
> 
> I've decided to shorten this story in the hopes of finishing it satisfactorily in the next few months. I've a nasty habit of running out of steam with big pieces like this, and I don't want to leave this one without a resolution. There're still plenty of chapters to come, but I'm not going to be sprawling about in my sandpit as much as I have been.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	42. Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the huge delay in this update, and for not replying to everyone's comments. I get such a kick out of reading them, and they're a real motivator to push on and find time to write, and I want to thank everyone again for commenting, leaving kudos or even just reading along quietly. I'm going to try much harder to get back to comments straight away instead of waiting until it feels like it's been so long it'd just be weird... 
> 
> I've deliberately sped things up now as I want to finish this fic, though there's still a little way to go. Thank you again for your patience!

****

Scope had returned an hour earlier than originally planned, but infinitely more refreshed than before. After a brief report from Ratchet, she’d hopped down into the bath where Megatron was still unconscious and set about examining him. By the time Ratchet had ushered Optimus to a berth in a side room and returned, she’d finished her diagnostics and was getting ready to drain the soiled pool. It would take both of them to get the carrier out safely, and the fluid would need to be replaced should he go back into crisis and need it again.

“Both carrier and sparkling are stable to move,” she confirmed, wiping her hands off on a mesh cloth. The oil was lapping around her hips, growing shallower.

Ratchet passed a hand over his face, resetting his optics whilst they were covered. He felt wrung out. “Good. We’ll get the drip back in when he’s on the berth.”

“How’s Prime?” Scope asked as she climbed out of the bath with the ease of youth.

Ratchet shook his head with a grimace, lowering himself to get in far more slowly. “Making me wish for a slagging therapist for all of this. Recharging now with a sedative.”

Scope made a soft sound and squatted to fit her hands beneath the mech’s arms. In the bath, Ratchet curled his hands beneath thighs just becoming visible as the oil drained. He would be in the easier position for the lift, but pride had never been an issue for him when it came to patient safety. If they should inadvertently twist or –Primus forbid - _drop_ Megatron, they’d likely need to go straight into surgery.

There was a brief sound of transformations, Scope’s pedes flaring for stability and treads dropping to shift her centre of balance. She looked to Ratchet over Megatron’s helm. “Ready?”

A curt nod, then Ratchet began to lift.

Once Megatron was out, Scope was able to transfer him to a trolley on her own. Ratchet began towelling him down whilst she adjusted his frame, mindful of how sticky the bath’s residue became once dried. Scope would clean him properly in the room, but the less they took in with him, the better.

Both medics were silent as they maneuvered the carrier back through the corridor. Ratchet was relieved to see that Scope had tidied everything away before leaving when he’d relieved her last night. Emergencies often left a mess of discarded equipment, spent packaging and spilt fluids. 

Once Megatron was settled on the berth, the screens on the wall console lit up and resumed taking readings through the integrating sensor suite. They spent some time arranging the big mech’s frame so that it was comfortably positioned, hands upturned and slightly elevated on cushioned wedges to encourage drainage from the wounds. Scope put two wedges on either side of his abdomen to support the chamber should they need to turn him. Whilst she did that, Ratchet checked the equipment in the drawers and prepared several emergency injectables. 

Scope took a pack of cleansing wipes from one of the cupboards and nudged the bin on one side of the room closer to the berth. “The repairs’ll be straightforward, and there’s no sign of the emergence protocols coming back online,” she said, already steadying Megatron’s hand with her thumb. “I’ll comm. if anything happens, Sir.” 

The statement was unnecessary – more of a gentle shoo for Ratchet to get some rest than assurance that she would follow protocol. 

Ratchet looked on the verge of shutting her down, but his energy reserves were worn down to nothing. A few hours of defrag before things took another inevitable turn for the worse would certainly be prudent.

“Alright. But _anything_ , you call.” Ratchet took a half-step backwards towards the door and hesitated. He ex-vented loudly, shoulders dropping. “That covers Optimus, too. There was an… _incident_ in the bath, and I fear he’s going to take it poorly.”

Scope continued circling the first wipe around the split underside of Megatron’s right wrist, but looked up with an arched brow. “Incident? Do I need to know more than that in case either of them wake before you get here?”

Ratchet’s mouth tightened, debating for a moment. Ultimately it was relevant to both patients in their care, and Scope had been wholly professional and mindful of confidentiality so far. “Penetration took place whilst Megatron was unconscious. Unintentional on Optimus’s part, and brief –too brief for transfluid emission – but even with the situation as it was, he’s already wracked with guilt.”

The younger medic nodded with a frown, looking down at the carrier. “When will Megatron be told?”

“When he’s fit to hear it.” Ratchet exvented heavily and rolled his shoulders, which creaked from lingering tension. “Optimus wants to confess himself, but I don’t think that’s necessary – or advisable. I want to keep these two apart as much as possible now.”

Scope nodded, tossing the first wipe into the bin and pulling out a second. She wrapped it around one blunt finger and began to carefully trace the edge of the wound. It would be a simple repair on both wrists – a benefit of the damage being done by a doctor. 

“No sign of the Nemesis, yet?” she asked quietly, glancing up at the exhausted medic.

Ratchet had been watching her work, expression blank, and straightened when she spoke. “Not that I’ve heard. But, space is big, and we’re trying to find it without announcing to everyone that the Leader of the Decepticons is here.”

She hummed an affirmative, finishing the first wrist and getting another wipe ready for the other. Ratchet cast a critical optic over the monitors before finally letting her shoo him off to recharge.

****

Jazz was on monitor duty. 

It was a ubiquitous term – the Ark was full of monitors which many mecha tasked to watch them and respond accordingly. The Monitor Duty that Jazz was parked with, however, was an off-the-record kind of punishment that he’d enjoying since Prowl had finished debriefing him about Megatron’s capture.

Whilst the multiple comm. channels that the Ark used were encrypted and confidential, there was one publicly available frequency. It was where distress signals from non-Autobot channels arrived, which were auto-sorted to light up on the command deck. The rest was mostly crap.  
Taunts. Threats. Games. News outlets making enquiries. It needed checking, though, and Jazz’s processor was quite capable of coming through the data dump in the background to chasing Nemesis leads.

There was a recurring textual communication that had him stumped, though. He waited until he was relieved for the next duty cycle before taking it with him on a pad. The Security Office wasn’t a long walk, and Jazz took the opportunity to stretch out his struts and get his optics used to looking at things that weren’t a fixed, scrolling screen.

The door opened before he’d raised his hand to it, and Jazz gave the camera above the frame a jaunty salute. Likely the black dome was a dummy, and the real camera was far more inconspicuous and set up further along the corridor. And part of a set. 

“Can I pick your processor, Red?” he asked from the doorway, holding up the pad demonstrably.

Red Alert didn’t look away from the curved wall of screens, filling his central and peripheral vision digits skimming across the consoles. “What do you need?”

Jazz approached at the invitation, coming to stand on Red Alert’s right. “Found a pattern on the public channel. It’s been recurring for days but I can’t figure it out.” He offered the pad, the sequences highlighted in the middle of the screen. “It’s not any cryptogram I know, but it’s nagging at me like it’s familiar. There’s some variation in the numbers, but they’re all linked by the first half.”

Red Alert glanced at the screen without moving to take the pad, then pulled up the log from the network on his own unit. He highlighted each recurrence and aligned them alongside notes of date, time and interval, then grouped the duplicates. Cocking his helm, he began separating the glyphs out into blocks so that the recurring sequences appeared in columns down the list and the differences were clearly demarcated. 

A thoughtful sound followed by a nod, and he finally looked back up to Jazz. “It’s a set of manufacturing serial numbers.”

One of the screens behind Jazz flashed dark green and then began showing showing star maps. It was mirroring a display on the bridge.

Jazz frowned at the pad in his hands. “What?”

Red Alert pointed with one finger to his screen as the numbers were highlighted in individual blocks. “Nineteen serial numbers on a loop, between forty and forty-seven digits long. Re-patented parts have another digit added each time the design is revised. Third through to the twelfth number are the code of the manufacturing plant.”

“What are they?” 

The seated mech nodded to another screen. “The catalogue is loading.”

An instant later, the file appeared and began jumping through to the sought for serial numbers. Red Alert isolated and dragged across the images and specs to the main screen as each one was found. The watched the parts for a quantum matrix nacelle compile until Jazz saw the serial number that had been tugging at his processor.

It was the relay casing. The one Jazz had hidden himself to get on to the Nemesis at Kimia.

“Frag.”

Red Alert arched a brow but didn’t enquire. He simply transferred the file to the pad in Jazz’s hand and replaced his hands on the controls to indicate he was done.

Jazz barely noticed, gripping the pad in both hands before subspacing it. “Thanks for the help, Red,” he said, already backing towards the door. “Gotta talk to Prime.”

****

The command bridge was strangely quiet. Usually when Prowl was off-ship and Ironhide was warming the chair as acting second-in-command, there was a low buzz of chatter from around the consoles. Mecha were still working, still concentrating, but without Prowl’s critical optic and lingering stare behind their backs, they felt relaxed and able to chat. 

It was not entirely unusual for Prowl to depart to personally head up investigations within the Autobots. No one outside of the command circle knew about Telios, though. Conversation would not have been so light.

Usually Ironhide was included in the conversations. It was bad for morale to have rigid formality at all times, and a few minutes catching up on gossip and trading opinions saved them from a dozen frayed nerves, creeping doubts and nasty fluxes. Prowl was pragmatically aware of that but didn’t actively encourage it. Optimus’s presence usually inspired respectful quiet. Ironhide had worked his way up from a grunt, and could drink most of the crew under the table, so it was natural that the atmosphere be completely different in his presence.

He was numb to it now, though, and deaf to the conversations. Some of the staff had taken his cue and continued working in silence whilst he sat, chin on his knuckles and mind on the past.

It had been a long time since he’d thought about his first barrack. The forms and disclaimers. The officer and the medic. His unit every cycle, boisterous and generous in their attention. The sparkling at the end, there and gone again in kliks.

It had been normal. Everyone he knew who’d wanted to go career had gone through it, or had planned to. It was insular, though. Civilians wouldn’t understand it. They couldn’t, just like they couldn’t understand going to semi-certain death shoulder-to-shoulder with your squad and glad of the opportunity. The siring wasn’t to be talked about – it just wasn’t done. The sparklings belonged to the military – you didn’t ask. It was how it was done. It was normal.

Now there was a shadow over that part of his past, and Ironhide didn’t know how to square it away. He wasn’t even sure if there hadn’t been a shadow there all along, and now it was impossible to ignore. 

Damn Megatron for rolling in like this. Ironhide found himself pitying the mech as much as hating him.

The lights flickered, and the sensor banks lit up. Ironhide lifted his helm and pushed up from the chair just as everyone shut up and began tapping rapidly at their consoles. 

“What?” he huffed with a scowl, far from in the mood for a mystery.

Immediately there was a chirp from the command console, a name on the small screen. Ironhide thumbed the button. “Yeah, Perceptor?”

“Radiation burst detected in Sector 19. Initial reports suggest a star gone nova.”

Ironhide arched a brow, already bringing up the star charts. Novas and supernovas were uncommon even with Cybertronian lifespans, but not unheard of. There were procedures in place to monitor stars nearing the ends of their lives, and what to do when they did. “None due in that sector for a long while. Find out which one and what’s happened.”

A massive part of space travel was the changing terrain. Celestial bodies were constantly in motion, reacting to each other’s gravity fields, wells and radiation. Further complications arose from the sheer distances involved and the fact that space bridges meant faster-than-light travel, which meant a lot of what their sensors could ‘see’ was in the past depending on which way they were moving and what direction they were looking at. 

Stars going nova changed the topography of the galaxy in numerous large and small ways, most significantly gravity. Trailway, seated at the navigation screens to the left of the helmsman, brought up the data Perceptor fed up. “I’ll start on the charts.”

Ironhide grunted an acknowledgement, watching Trailway scroll through overlapping screens and data feeds, backtracking the burst to the source with the help of the sensor bank operators. He remained standing, something niggling the corner of his processor. Slowly, he made his way to stand behind a few paces behind Trailway’s chair.

The orange mech was fully absorbed in the screen, helm leaning ahead of his shoulders and frown growing heavier. After another thirty seconds he suddenly stopped, hands static above the controls. 

“It’s Valen, Sir,” he uttered, peripherally aware that Ironhide was behind him and close enough to hear.

The name was familiar as a recurring point in strategy meetings and progress reports as something the Decepticons were after and the Autobots sorely needed to keep hold of. Ironhide came alongside Trailway fully, scowling at the mess of lines and dots on the screen. “What?”

“The star’s not gone nova.” Perceptor’s voice was steady, coming from the comm. channel that Ironhide hadn’t closed. A small vid screen appeared in the bottom right of Trailway’s monitor, though Perceptor wasn’t looking at the camera. 

The scientist’s speed in noticing such distant readings could be credited to Red Alert. Not only was the Ark’s security director hyperaware of threats on-board the ship, he was vigilant of those from outside: both Decepticon and natural phenomena. He’d harassed Perceptor with panicked calls about sensory abnormalities written off as ‘space quirks’ that could disguise an ambush. 

It had escalated to the point where the scientist had become versed in parsing irregular readings from those that the sensors regularly took from space, and could auto-reply to Red Alert without much effort. 

Trailway watched as Perceptor isolated the Valen system, centering the star on the screen. He was familiar with the system, and knew that star was in the middle of its life cycle and perfectly stable. 

Perceptor triggered an animation on the screen – rings expanding from the white sphere. “It’s undergone a superflare, and likely a coronal mass ejection.” 

Pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment, Trailway shook his head a little. “That doesn’t make sense. It… It isn’t of a class to be able to _do_ that.”

The animation repeated itself as Perceptor went on. “We’re just receiving readings from a satellite at the edge of the Valen system. No communications from inside. Readings are unlike anything that’s been recorded around flare phenomena before. The electromagnetic radiation and the shockwave will disrupt the whole system. Valen One and Two have lost atmosphere. The Iridium rings around Valen Four have been destroyed.” 

“Primus.” Ironhide put a hand on the shoulder of Trailway’s chair. It shouldn’t have been possible. This was looking like the nightmare-calibre of weapon that he dreaded being invented. “The colonies…”

There was no point in dispatching aid. There was no one left there to help. Primus willing, there’d been a bright flash and then nothing.

“What could have done this?” he demanded. “An accident at the mine that triggered some chain reaction? Did someone spacebridge into the star? What?”

There was a concerning pause on the comm. Finally, Perceptor replied, “We won’t know until a full investigation is undertaken. But I think we should alert High Command, if someone hasn’t already.”

***

Megatron awoke to a mix of pain and great fatigue. His frame was leaden and his sensornet buzzing with dull aches and sharper throbs. The discomfort around his midsection was long-familiar, as was the gnawing pain in his backstrut, but there were sharper points in his wrists that drew his attention. He could also feel that the drip had been reinstalled, and a wedge cushion placed beneath his knees.

It was a relief to find the lights dimmed when he onlined his optics, hand automatically moving for the swell of the sparkling. Still inside, he noted with relief, and he let his hand linger there. He wondered how long it would be until he stopped waking with the fear that it would be missing from his body.

There was a faint smell of burnt wiring, and his arms ached. Still guarding his middle with one hand, he raised his other arm to look at his wrist. It appeared, on the surface, undamaged, but there were faint signs of welding work. 

Clenching his fist, he felt his hydraulics light up hot and angry from his hand to his shoulder. Electrical damage, then. He lay his arm back at his side and turned his head to the side.

As expected, a medic was sitting in the affixed chair with a datapad, watching silently. Scope rose to her pedes when their optics met, subspacing whatever she’d been reading. 

“You’ve been in recharge for half a cycle,” she said, arms coming to her sides. “No sedatives, though it’s safe to administer some if you want to rest through the rest of your autorepair.”

Megatron appreciated the informative greeting – very much the habit of a military-sparked medic rather than a civilian. The latter typically began with ‘how’re you feeling?’ which Megatron had no time for.

He shook his head at the offer of sedatives, not wishing to be unconscious amongst the Autobots for a nanoklik longer than was avoidable. Instead he slowly sat up further on the berth, studiously ignoring how the movement made his frame throb. “Tell me what happened.”

Her optics flicked towards the door. “Ratchet will be here short-”

“I didn’t ask Ratchet,” he cut in flatly. “I asked you.”

She nodded crisply, stepping closer to the berth. “May I check you whilst I do?” At his nod, she produced a scanner and began making slow sweeps across his middle. “We stopped your emergence sequence, which -given how premature it was- was full of errors. Ratchet’s work with your coding and your own autorepair, supported by the oil bath, has undone that damage.”

“And the rest?”

“Your carrier coding was unchecked whilst you were unconscious,” Scope went on carefully, glancing up momentarily before making some small adjustments. “You had to be bodily separated from the Prime – Ratchet shorted the hydraulics in your arms to do so. It’ll ache whilst your autorepair finishes, but no lasting damage.”

Megatron examined the underside of his wrist, slowly opening and closing his fingers. His memories of yesterday were sketchy, partially corrupted and blended with the flux of the arena. It took time and concentration to parse them. 

He remembered the overwhelming fear of the sparkling being lost, and of Optimus holding him upright whilst the Autobot medics worked against his frame. Strut-deep cold that further agitated the pain, and then warmth everywhere. A bath of some kind. He remembered feeling Optimus against his chassis and between his thighs, both awake and in the flux. How good it felt. Remembered grinding down, searching. Needing.

Optics shuttering, he fidgeted minutely to feel for the tell-tale ache. It was there, though very mild. He clenched his jaw, tank roiling. 

Doubtful that it had been of conscious intent, he told himself. The violation was down to base coding on both sides. _Optimus wouldn’t…_

Megatron cycled a ventilation, plates stiff and tight. It did not matter, in the scale of things. Another ventilation. He drew his chin up and shoulders down, facing Scope with stony calm. 

She was watching in perfect silence, holding the scanner like a shield. 

The Decepticon opened his mouth in an aborted attempt to speak, vocaliser clicking once before he asked, “Was there transfluid?”

To her credit, Scope shook her head immediately. “None. It was very brief, from what Ratchet told me.”

Nothing more of Optimus in his body, nor in the construction of the sparkling. Megatron found some relief in that, though he still sneered at the medic. “And was that before or after he pried open my wrists to short out my lines?”

Scope’s treads twitched behind her shoulders, and the Decepticon made a note of that little tell. She was bold, though, setting the scanner to one side and approaching the berth. “During,” she said, resting her fingertips on the edge. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you exactly what happened, but Ratchet can.”

“So could Prime,” he added darkly, watching with satisfaction as her gaze slid away.

It was difficult to remain sitting up unsupported on the berth, much to his irritation, but Megatron didn’t feel ready to stand yet, nor twist to sit on the edge of the berth. He eased back on one elbow and then flat with a grimace, pressing a hand to his side when there was a sudden, sharp pressure. It wasn’t pain, precisely, but it felt strange and tender.

The motion didn’t escape Scope’s attention, and she seemed to leap on it as a welcome change of topic. “Does that hurt?”

Settling fully on his backplates was another exercise in discomfort, and Megatron automatically drew his knees up a little to ease his struts and the various pulls and compressions around the heavy gestation chamber. The sensation came again in his side, roughly where the infiltrator had stabbed him. “No. I don’t know what it is.”

Scope picked up the scanner again, making a much quicker sweep than before. She smiled a little at the readings. “It’s the sparkling. Its motor functions are online – probably forced on by the emergence protocols. It was due at this point in your carriage.” She traced the air above his swollen side with one finger in an L-shape. “That’s an elbow, according to the scanner. It’s turned over, and unfortunately is jabbing where you’re still healing.”

The next jab was harder and definitely qualified as painful. Megatron lay a hand over the area and applied pressure, automatically supporting the abused mesh.

“Can I try something?” Scope asked, fast enough that it was obviously impulsive. She tipped her head a little when Megatron looked at her, one shoulder raising slightly. “See if the sparkling will move off that spot?”

He thought of the cushions and the blankets, and her history as an encultured soldier, then nodded.

Scope mouth twitched towards a smile but remained professionally schooled, and she rested two fingertips on the upper side of his middle, where his plates curved down towards his chassis. With her other hand, she used a finger to rapidly strike the middle joints and thus send a vibration down her two fingers and into his belly. 

After a few seconds, the sparkling jerked its elbow again but in a completely different area. The sensation was now like some small part twitching of its own accord. Pressure, sudden and unpredictable, but not painful.

The medic withdrew her hands. “Sparklings respond to some stimulus during carriage as their systems come online. Moving in reaction to vibration is very common. Voices, too. Towards the end, when their optics are working, some will react to bright light if there’s no armour in the way.”

Megatron felt dazed, all of a sudden. Beyond the simple weight, and the havoc that the sparkling had wreaked upon his body, he’d not felt the sparkling as something that was tangibly real and _alive_ until now. His palm remained cupped against his patched side, and he was distantly aware of his other hand coming up to cradling the swell. To feel where the sparkling was fidgeting and shoving and exerting itself beyond mere passive growth.

This was, in the sum of everything, a privilege that Megatron had not much dared to entertain the thought of experiencing. New life from a frame like his, nurturing a new being into creation when he had survived so much and killed so many. The odds had long been stacked against them, and yet they continued to endure. 

They were going to get home. Megatron set his mind to the fact with the same unshakable determination with which he’d decided to tear down the Council. His resolve was even stronger now, with the stakes so personally and immediately present. They were both going to get off this blasted ship and back to the Nemesis, back to Soundwave and Breakdown and the rest, and finish this carriage.

Scope finished replacing the energon drip, and checked that it was mixing with the line from the second tank of supplements. She wouldn’t leave the carrier now, but she could give him peace if not privacy. Withdrawing back to the chair by the door, she sat quietly and began typing up the report. Peripherally, she saw that his hands still framed the sparkling, and his optics were unfocused upon the ceiling.

****

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Revelations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3802804) by [Cosmicat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosmicat/pseuds/Cosmicat)




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